IF  You  BELIEVE  IT, 
Irs  So 


BY 
PERLEY  POORE  SHEEHAN 


ILLUSTRATED    BY 
ADA  WILLIAMSON  and  PAUL  STAHR 


New  York 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 

Publishers 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


COPYBIGHT,    1919,   BT 

THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 


TO 

A.  W.  S. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    Lost  Money . 9 

II.     As  Among  Friends 16 

III.  Into  the  Night 25 

IV.  The  Book  of  Revelation 32 

V.     Remission 39 

VI.     Near  Chatham  Square 45 

VII.    The  Big  Idea 51 

VIII.     Testimental 56 

IX.     "Sky-blue" 62 

X.     Sniffing  the  Asphodel 68 

XI.     Spring 76 

XII.     "Flowery  Harbor" 82 

XIII.  As  Seen  and  Overheard 88 

XIV.  Mr.  Richard  Davies 94, 

XV.     Up  the  Street _ 100 

XVI.     Against  All  Comers 107 

XVII.    The  Peace  Angel 113 

XVIII.     The  Touch  Divine .120 

XIX.     Bound  Hand  and  Foot 126 

XX.     Partners 132 

XXI.     "  Welcome  to  Our  City  " 138 

XXII.     Justice:  That's  All 145 

XXIII.  The  Quality  of  Mercy 150 

XXIV.  Small  Voices 155 

XXV.     Friend  Emerson 160 

XXVI.     The  Beating  Heart 166 

XXVII.     Eye  to  Eye 173 


CONTENTS—CONTINUED 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVIII.    Us  Two 181 

XXIX.     Starlight  and  Graft 187 

XXX.     High  Praise 193 

XXXI.     Compensations «. 198 

XXXII.     Positive  and  Negative 203 

XXXIII.  Alvah  Listens 211 

XXXIV.  Into  the  Depths 217 

XXXV.     The  High  Tower 224 

XXXVI.     Pardon 230 

XXXVII.     "The  Old  Homestead" 236 

XXXVIII.     Hesitations 242 

XXXIX.    Acid  and  Alkali 248 

XL.     "I  am  the  Printing-Press" 253 

XLI.     Faith  and  Mortgages 259 

XLII.     Far  Thunder 265 

XLIII.     Lightning 271 

XLIV.     Before  the  Storm 276 

XLV.     Shelter 281 

XLVI.     The  Guiding  Light 287 

XLVII.     Armageddon  292 

XLVIII.     "This  Is  My  Friend"  297 

XLIX.    Face  to  Face 304 

L.     Skin  for  Skin _.310 

LI.    Tooth  and  Claw 315 

LII.     The  Return  of  the  Shade 321 

LIII.     The  Last  Believer 328 

LIV.     The  Dawn  of  Glory 334 

LV.    Epilogue 340 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

"He's  the  finest  man  in  the  world,"  the  girl  flamed 

from  the  midst  of  her  trouble  ....  Frontispiece 

"Honest  and  on  the  level,  how  long  do  you  think  it's 
goin'  to  be  before  you  all  get  yours?"  ...  53 

"But,  Chicky,"  said  the  old  man;  "I  wasn't  tryin' 
to  hornswaggle  you.  Hain't  I  said  all  along  we 
were  splitting  fifty  fifty?"  .  ....  .  .  .  311 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,   IT'S  SO 


CHAPTER  I 

LOST    MONEY 

LATE  afternoon,  and  the  usual  ebb  and  flow,  back 
wash  and  cross-currents  of  humanity  in  the  Grand 
Central  Station.  The  complication  was  rendered  still 
more  complex  by  the  thousands  of  commuters  leaving 
for  their  homes  in  the  suburbs,  by  yet  thousands  of 
other  suburbanites  arriving  for  a  dinner  in  town  and 
an  evening  at  the  theater.  A  muffled  hubbub  filled  the 
place,  somewhat  like  that  one  hears  in  a  concert  hall 
when  a  big  orchestra  is  settling  into  place — all  the 
instruments  more  or  less  in  tune,  yet  emitting  different 
notes,  some  of  them  high  and  some  of  them  low,  some 
of  them  tiny  and  shrill  and  some  of  them  hugely  vibrant. 

"Kiss  Mabel  for  me  and  tett  her " 

"Ah'll  Jcerry  yo9  beggage." 

"Great  guns!     We've  missed— 

"There  now,  I'll  be  back." 

And  then  a  diversion,  not  very  loud,  not  very  notice 
able  in  that  vast  concourse: 

"My  money!    It's  gone!    I — I've  lost  my  money." 

9 


10  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Not  much  louder  and  not  much  more  noticeable, 
say,  than  the  crushing  of  a  Stradivarius  would  have 
been;  but  a  disaster  of  equal  import,  to  judge  by  the 
quality  of  the  speaker's  voice  and  the  appearance  of 
the  victim  himself. 

He  was  an  elderly  man,  still  broad  and  powerful,  yet 
with  shoulders  manifestly  stooped  with  years  of  hard 
work.  He  had  a  rugged,  kindly  face,  in  which  there 
were  soft  tints  of  pink  and  brown;  clear,  blue  eyes,  in 
which,  even  now,  there  was  more  of  kindly  innocence 
than  consternation.  For  the  rest,  he  was  very  clean, 
freshly  shaved,  and  dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes. 

He  had  been  carrying  a  large  but  not  very  full  valise 
of  imitation  black  leather.  He  had  placed  this  on  the 
polished  stone  floor  at  his  feet  while  he  used  both  hands 
to  search  his  pockets.  He  stood  right  in  the  middle  of 
one  of  the  main  drifts  of  mixed  humanity  hurrying  to 
and  from  the  trains. 

"What  will  mother  say?    She  told  me  to  be  keerful !" 

Perhaps  a  hundred — two  hundred — pedestrians 
passed  him  by,  no  more  conscious  of  his  existence  than 
they  would  have  been  of  any  other  obstacle  to  be  auto 
matically  avoided. 

Then,  an  undersized  messenger-boy  paused  and 
looked  at  him  with  detached  interest.  Two  Hunkies, 
outward-bound  for  a  labor-camp  and  still  with  an  hour 
or  so  to  wait,  also  decided  to  become  spectators.  Three 
small  children,  with  eyes  like  robins,  lingering  on  their 
way  to  the  drinking-fountain,  forgot  their  thirst.  This 
was  the  audience  that  the  old  man  addressed. 


LOST  MONEY  11 

"I  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much — I  suppose  whoever  finds 
it  will  bring  it  back — but  it  wasn't  really  ours." 

He  was  panting  as  lie  said  it.  He  had  pushed  back 
his  broad-brimmed,  soft  felt  hat,  and  a  fine  sweat  was 
already  making  his  white  hair  stick  to  his  temples. 
There  was  no  mistaking  his  desperation,  yet  he  sought 
to  cover  this  with  a  smile. 

"Yuh'd  better  look  out,"  said  the  messenger-boy, 
with  a  lurch  of  sly  wisdom,  "er  they'll  be  swipin'  yer 
grip." 

Even  this  small  nucleus  of  a  crowd,  however,  had 
now  been  sufficient  to  attract  others  from  the  shuttling 
throngs — commuters  still  with  a  minute  to  spare,  a 
porter  or  two,  prospective  diners,  idlers,  they  that  had 
just  said  good-by  to  friends. 

In  the  midst  of  this  growing  crowd  the  old  man  still 
stood  there  stricken,  a  little  dazed,  taking  account 
of  his  pockets.  He  had  a  big,  clean  handkerchief  in 
one  of  his  hands,  and  this  was  constantly  getting  into 
his  way.  He  worked  a  large,  old-fashioned  snap-purse 
from  a  trouser-pocket  and  opened  this  and  peered  into 
it  and  then  forgot  to  put  it  back. 

The  crowd,  enthralled,  began  to  vocalize : 

"  'Smatter,  pop?" 

"What's  he  advertising 

"Somebuddy's  gypped  his  roll." 

"You  should  worry.  Come  on  'r  we'll  miss  the  five 
ten:9 

A  special  policeman,  soft-spoken,  smooth  as  oil,  came 
through  the  crowd  without  visible  effort,  and  reached 
the  old  man's  side. 


12  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"What  appears  to  be  the  trouble?" 

While  the  old  man  explained,  the  man  in  uniform 
made  a  slight  signal  to  a  regular  policeman  who  was 
drawing  near. 

"Come  on  now,"  said  the  regular  cop,  as  he  began 
to  shoo  the  crowd  away.  "Move  along.  They  ain't 
nothin'  happened.  Come  on,  now.  Move — al-long!" 

And  the  crowd  was  drifting  into  motion  again,  its 
interest  already  on  other  things. 

"Did  you  see  what  the  Reds  done  in  the  third?" 

"Yeh,  she's  beginning  to  talk.  Says:  'Dada! 
Dada!'  " 

"Oscar  win " 

"But,  my  Gawd,  Lows,  she's  not  over  seventeen!'9 

The  old  man  looked  at  the  two  policemen,  the  special 
and  the  regular. 

"Mother — Martha — she's  my  wife,"  he  recommenced, 
breathlessly,  apologetically,  with  contrition  and  grief, 
"she  'lowed  I'd  better  have  it  sewed  in  my  pocket.  She's 
generally  right." 

Had  he  received  a  bullet  through  the  chest  he  would 
have  looked  like  that — breast  heaving,  the  color  drain 
ing  from  his  face,  his  mild  eyes  those  of  one  who  con 
fronts  the  ultimate  catastrophe.  He  made  a  mighty 
effort  to  pull  himself  together.  He  touched  his  tem 
ples  with  the  wadded  handkerchief.  He  was  grasping 
for  familiar  realities  to  hold  him  up. 

"Mr.  Dale — he's  the  president  of  our  bank — told  me 
I'd— better  let  him  send  a  draft." 

He  was  speaking  only  with  the  utmost  difficulty. 

"Mother — she   thought   so,   too — only — she  wanted 


LOST  MONEY  13 

me  to  see  New  York — again.  Been  working  pretty 
steady.  Hadn't  seen  the  place  for  thirty  years." 

By  one  of  those  peculiar  shifts  in  the  human  whirl 
pool  of  the  railroad  terminus,  the  recent  vortex  where 
they  stood  was  now  almost  completely  quiet.  Over 
there,  fresh  passengers  and  clinging  friends  were  hud 
dling  for  the  departure  of  a  great  express.  Nearer, 
an  iron  gate  opened  and  at  once,  like  the  waters  of  a 
sluice,  the  people  flowed  away  in  yet  another  current. 

"Maybe  you  got  it  in  your  hip-pocket,rj  said  the 
regular  policeman  with  practical  sympathy. 

The  old  man  made  another  examination,  fumbling, 
hopeless,  yet  thorough. 

"I  got  my  purse,"  he  said.  "It  ain't  that — but 
the  wallet." 

The  wallet,  it  appeared,  was  old ;  one  that  his  daugh 
ter  had  given  him  years  ago.  He  spoke  of  this  daugh 
ter  as  "our  little  girl."  No,  it  didn't  have  his  name 
on  it,  but  he'd  recognize  it  anywhere — about  eight 
inches  long  by  four  wide,  and  the  leather  used  to  be 
red,  but  now  was  a  sort  of  shiny  brown.  He  could 
have  told  it  blindfolded,  he  had  handled  it  so  much.  He 
could  almost  recognize  it  by  its  smell — like  old,  blind 
Rex,  a  worn-out,  ancient  dog  of  his  back  home. 

The  special  officer  disappeared  in  the  direction  of 
the  train-shed.  The  policeman  was  taking  notes. 

Of  all  those  who  had  been  lingering  there — the  typ 
ical  New  York  crowd,  amateurs  of  emotion — only  two 
remained.  One  was  the  messenger-boy  who  had  origin 
ally  discovered  the  sensation.  Mere  profundity  of 
thought,  rather  than  an  active  interest,  seemed  to  be 


U  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

holding  him.  It  wouldn't  have  been  so  easy  to  guess 
what  held  the  other  onlooker  there. 

He  was  a  strangely  handsome  youth,  this  other — a 
little  too  handsome,  almost,  with  classic  features,  large, 
dark  eyes,  a  general  expression  of  alert  but  brooding 
intelligence ;  only,  a  closer  look  revealed  a  certain 
unwholesomeness  about  him,  such  as  comes  to  both  men 
and  plants  that  lack  sufficient  sunshine.  So  it  was  with 
his  clothes — almost  too  elegant,  and  yet,  if  scrutinized, 
showing  a  certain  note  of  cheap  luxury  and  underlying 
shabbiness. 

This  youth  strolled  away  a  dozen  steps.  He  came 
back  again.  He  took  casual  note  of  others  who  came 
and  went.  And  sometimes  this  was  with  an  all-but- 
imperceptible  start,  as  if  he  recognized  them,  or  saw 
something  about  them  that  pricked  his  interest.  But, 
again  and  again,  his  attention  reverted  to  the  old 
man  who  had  lost  his  money. 

The  special  policeman  returned  from  the  train-shed, 
reporting  the  result  of  an  inquiry:  "I  guess  it's  a 
larceny,  all  right." 

"Guess  we'd  better  go  with  him  to  the  desk,  Bill,"  the 
regular  policeman  proposed. 

"I  don't  yet,"  the  old  man  gasped  miserably,  "see 
how  it  happened." 

"Happens  every  day,"  the  special  replied  with  Stoic 
philosophy.  "Don't  it,  Joe?  This  way,  sir.  First, 
you'll  want  to  make  a  complaint." 

"Yes,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day  if  not  oftener,"  Joe 
cheerfully  averred. 


LOST  MONEY  15 

"Hey,  youse's  fergittin'  yer  grip,"  the  young  mes 
senger  called  out. 

"Well,  just  see!" 

The  old  man  took  the  grip  from  the  boy's  hand,  but 
immediately  set  it  down  again.  Once  more  he  opened 
the  ancient  purse  that  had  been  spared  him.  He,  trem 
bling,  opened  this.  He  sought  a  coin.  The  messen 
ger's  lethargic  face  assumed  an  expression  of  astute 
expectancy. 

"Here's  a  nickel  for  you,  bub.  I  suppose  I  really 
should  give  you  more." 

The  messenger  was  not  averse,  but  the  law  inter 
vened. 

"Gwan,  now ;  beat  it,"  Joe  advised ;  and  the  messen 
ger  skipped  away — not  intoxicated,  precisely,  but  mol 
lified. 

The  two  officers  and  he  who  had  lost  his  money — his 
broad  old  shoulders  a  trifle  more  bent  than  ever — 
started  off  in  the  direction  of  the  precinct  police-sta 
tion.  The  young  man — he  of  the  dark  eyes — appeared 
to  hesitate.  He  came  to  a  decision. 

He  started  in  pursuit. 


CHAPTER  II 

AS    AMONG    FRIENDS 

"ELEVEN  hundred  dollars,  Mr.  Officer,"  the  old  man 
was  saying  to  the  chubby-faced  lieutenant  back  of  the 
high  desk.  The  official  bent  and  wrote,  his  face  shin 
ing  redly  in  the  electric  light.  From  the  midst  of  his 
labors  he  rumbled. 

"Name?" 

"Ezra  Wood." 

"Address?" 

"Rosebloom — this  State.  We've  lived  there,  mother, 
and  me,  for  nigh  onto  sixty  years." 

"Was  it  before,  or  after,  you  got  off  the  train " 

"After,  I  reckon ;  right  after,  Mr.  Officer.  You  see, 
I  was  sort  of  thinking  about  the  folks  at  home,  and 
what  my  wife  said  about  me  being  keerful.  I  touched 
the  wallet  in  my  pocket.  It  was  there.  She  says  to 
me  something  about  New  York  not  being  like  Rose- 
bloom  ;  but  we're  all  born  of  women,  have  our  trou 
bles " 

"Notice  any  one  specially  who  might  Ve  taken  it?" 

"Done  what,  sir?" 

"Why,  took  your  roll " 

"You  mean — I  was  robbed?" 

He'd  taken  off  his  hat  as  soon  as  he  entered  the 

16 


AS  AMONG  FRIENDS  17 

high  bare  room  of  the  police-station,  and  he  stood  there 
now  uncovered — his  silky,  white  hair  stirring  a  little  in 
the  draft  of  the  place,  his  benignant  face  graven  deep 
with  lines  of  pain  and  patience  and  simple  goodness. 
The  official  light  shone  down  upon  him,  covering  him 
with  a  halo.  And  such  a  different  picture  did  he 
make  from  those  usually  presented  by  the  strangers 
who  stood  before  this  unholy  judgment-seat,  that  most 
of  the  policemen  who  passed  through  the  room  paused 
there  to  listen. 

Anyway,  it  was  at  an  hour  when  there  wasn't  much 
to  do — a  new  detail  just  gone  on  duty,  the  old  platoon 
coming  in.  It  was  to  the  room  at  large,  and  those 
who  listened  there,  as  much  as  to  the  lieutenant  back 
of  the  high  desk,  that  the  old  man  addressed  himself 
when  he  next  spoke.  He  had  raised  his  face.  There 
was  a  new  calm  and  a  new  courage  there. 

"I  suppose  it's  all  for  the  best,'*  he  labored.  He 
had  a  fleeting  breath  of  hope.  "Maybe  it  wasn't  stolen 
after  all.  I've  always  been  kind  of  absent-minded  about 
letting  things  lay  around.  Maybe  some  one  will  find 
it — give  it  back." 

"Maybe,"  droned  the  lieutenant,  with  the  flicker  of 
an  eyelid  at  those  who  were  standing  by.  "We're  go 
ing  to  try  to  find  it  for  you,  cap;  but  they  said  it, 
all  right,  all  right,  when  they  told  you  that  this  burg 
ain't  no  Rosebloom.  The  train  and  the  whole  platform 
over  there  at  the  depot  has  been  searched,  and  you  can 
bet  your  life,  after  what  you've  said,  your  roll  ain't 
among  the  stuff  they  find.  If  it  was,  we'd  have  heard 
about  it  before  this.  The  depot  staff's  all  right. 


18  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

They've  got  to  be.  We  got  'em  trained.  YouVe  bee* 
rolled  by  a  dip — had  your  pocket  picked." 

"You  must  know,  Mr.  Officer." 

"I'll  get  this  report  down  to  headquarters" — and 
he  passed  the  thing  he  had  written  to  a  sergeant — "and 
if  your  crook's  to  be  got  they'll  get  him." 

"I'd  hate  to  think  I  had  something  to  do  with  send 
ing  any  one  to  the  lockup." 

"That's  where  he'll  go,"  the  lieutenant  laughed. 
"Say,  if  he's  lucky,  that  guy'll  get  only  about  fifteen 
years." 

"But  we  don't  know  how  he  was  tempted.  Perhaps 
he  was  hungry,  and  old,  was  driven  to  it." 

Some  half-dozen  policemen  were  in  the  room  by  this 
time.  The  old  man's  presence  and  the  lieutenant's 
indulgent  mood  had  relaxed  discipline  just  a  trifle. 
There  was  a  gurgle  of  derision.  One  of  the  policemen 
turned  to  the  dark-eyed  youth  who  had  lingered  near. 

"Ain't  he  a  sketch  ?"  the  policeman  inquired.  "Don't 
want  to  do  nothing  now  to  the  gink  that  nicked  him." 

The  youth  of  the  dark  eyes  smiled.  He  knew  many 
policemen.  But  he  didn't  speak.  He  brooded.  He 
watched.  He  listened. 

"Fergit  it,"  the  lieutenant  was  advising,  jovially. 
"It  wasn't  no  old  geezer  turned  this  trick.  This  is  the 
work  of  some  fresh  young  boy.  The  big  town  keeps 
turnin'  'em  out  faster  'n  we  can  trim  'em.  Of  course, 
sooner  or  later,  we  make  the  pinch." 

"A  young  man?" 

"Sure!  They're  the  only  kind  that  can  work  New 
York ;  and  even  they  slip  up — and  then,  good  night  f 


AS  AMONG  FRIENDS  19 

"I  don't  believe  that  I  could  send  a  boy  to  prison — 
right  at  the  beginning  of  his  career — to  break  his 
mother's  heart." 

"Well,  what  do  they  do  when  they  catch  a  crook  up 
in  your  part  of  the  world?" 

"There  be  none.  No,  sir!  Not  in  Rosebloom.  We 
raise  our  boys  and  girls  to  be  God-fearing  citizens,  up 
there.  Oh,  the  boys'll  take  a  few  apples,  now  and 
then;  but  that  ain't  stealing.  And  I  suppose  the  girls 
are  about  like  all  other  girls — poor  little,  innocent 
things.  But  nobody  locks  their  doors  up  there.  Every 
one  trusts  every  one  else — lends  a  hand  in  case  of 
misfortune." 

"Say,"  the  lieutenant  exclaimed,  with  an  eye  on  his 
audience,  "if  I  ever  got  located  in  a  burg  like  that, 
believe  me,  I'd  stick !  What  did  you  leave  it  for,  with 
all  that  money?" 

"It  was  foolish  of  me,"  the  old  man  answered,  gently. 
"But  that  money  was  owing  on  a  mortgage  for  nigh 
two-score  years.  Mother  and  I  borrowed  it  from  old 
Major  Higginbotham  at  the  time  our  little  girl  took 
sick.  And  then,  when  the  first  mortgage  ran  out  at 
about  the  time  the  old  major  died,  and  we  weren't  in  a 
position  to  clear  it  off,  why,  we  renewed  it  with  the 
major's  son — that's  Mr.  Edgar  Higginbotham — and 
he's  been  carrying  it  ever  since.  I  wanted  to  see  him 
- — tell  him  how  much  mother  and  I  appreciate  his  kind 
ness.  You  see,  hard  as  we'd  try,  we  weren't  always 
quite  ready  to  meet  the  payments.  Our  little  girl  died 
— a  beautiful  and  saintly  creature — when  she  was  bare 
ly  thirty.  But  the  Lord's  been  good  to  us.  He  has. 


20  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

We've  done  better  these  past  six  years — put  by  more'n 
a  thousand  dollars.  This  eleven  hundred  dollars  was 
the  last  we  owed." 

He  halted  in  what  he  was  saying.  He  stood  there 
with  his  mouth  open  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  something 
more. 

"Now  what  do  you  know  about  that?"  the  policeman 
in  the  back  of  the  room  whispered  hoarsely  to  the  dark- 
eyed  youth. 

"Some  yarn!"  the  youth  answered  from  the  corner 
of  his  mouth. 

It  was  a  barely  audible  whisper  that  came  from  Ezra 
Wood: 

"Stand  fast  in  the  faith !  Stand  fast  in  the  faith ! 
I  will,  O  Lord;  but — will  Martha  be  able  to  bear  it?" 

"You  don't  want  to  take  it  so  hard,"  said  the  lieuten 
ant  with  kindly  intent.  "Why,  somebody's  gettin' 
theirs  every  time  the  clock  ticks,  here  in  New  York." 

He  turned  a  leaf  of  the  official  blotter.     He  read : 

"  'Mamie  Martin,  white,  eleven,  run  over  by  brewery- 
truck,  both  legs  -fractured,  internal  injuries.  Bettevue.' 

"  'Gus  Pemberton — and  so  forth — lacerations — prob 
ably  blinded.9 

"  'Max  Mendelbaum,  attempted  suicide,  ar 
rested ' 

'  'Body  unidentified  girl ' 

"Get  me?"  the  lieutenant  demanded.  "That  sort  of 
stuff  day  in  and  day  out,  every  day  in  the  year,  Sun 
days  and  all." 

"The  Lord  have  pity  on  us  all!"  said  Ezra  Wood, 
bracing  himself  like  a  soldier  shaking  his  pack  into 


AS  AMONG  FRIENDS  21 

place.  "In  my  own  trouble  I  forgot  about  the  trouble 
of  others." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  lieutenant.  "You  got 
your  troubles,  all  right.  So's  every  one  else  that 
goes  up  against  this  town.  Y'  understand?  Unless 
they're  tough  like  an  elephant,  which  a  lot  of  'em  are, 
or  strong  like  hairy  gorillas,  or  slick  like  the  snakes 
in  the  zoo — they  all  get  theirs!  Either  that,  or 
you've  got  a  brain  on  you  like  Thomas  A.  Edison,  or 
a  good  thing,  like  me  old  friend,  John  D.  Get  me? 
Because,  if  you  ain't,  sooner  or  later,  this  big  town's 
going  to  eat  you  alive." 

"The  Lord  have  pity  on  us  all!"  Ezra  Wood  re 
peated.  "I  suppose  my  loss  is  nothing — only — only, 
you  see " 

"Uncle,"  the  lieutenant  said,  more  softly,  with  a 
burst  of  unprofessional  sympathy,  "if  I  was  you,  I'd 
go  and  get  something  to  eat  and  then  lay  me  down 
for  a  good  night's  sleep.  There  ain't  nothing  you  can 
do.  Leave  it  to  us.  Cheer  up.  Say,  we'll  have  the 
commissioner  himself  on  the  job.  If  your  roll's  to  be 
got,  we'll  get  it.  Won't  we,  boys?" 

"Surest  thing  you  know." 

"We're  wit'  you,  lute." 

"I  can't  tell  you  how  I  appreciate  your  kindness," 
said  Mr.  Wood.  "I  told  mother — Martha — that's  my 
wife — we've  been  married  nigh  onto  fifty  years — that 
folks  down  here  were  no  different  from  our  folks  up  in 
Rosebloom.  I  wish  that  you  gentlemen — any  of  you 
— could  pay  us  a  visit  some  time.  We'd  give  you  a 
royal  welcome." 


22  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Get  that?"  whispered  the  policeman  in  the  back 
of  the  room.  "Peeled  of  all  he's  got  sooner'n  he  can  get 
out  of  the  depot,  and  yet  he  comes  back  wit*  an  all- 
round  invite  to  pay  him  a  visit." 

The  youth  of  the  dark  eyes  appeared  to  be  too 
absorbed  to  answer.  He  was  listening,  one  would  have 
said,  with  a  sort  of  fascination. 

"You're  all  to  the  good,"  the  lieutenant  averred. 
And  he  so  far  forgot  official  dignity  as  to  come  around 
from  the  other  side  of  the  desk.  "Now  doncha  weaken. 
We're  on  the  job." 

"And  I  appreciate  your  advice.  I'm  still  a  little 
dazed.  Let's  see.  I've  got  three  dollars — minus  a 
nickel — and  my  return  ticket  home.  Maybe  you  can 
recommend  some  modest  sort  of  place  where  I  could 
get  a  room." 

The  lieutenant  meditated,  but  not  for  long. 

"Tim,"  he  said,  "you  got  to  pass  the  Boone  House. 
Suppose  you  show  cap,  here,  where  it  is.  You  can  get 
a  room  there  for  a  dollar,"  he  enlightened  Ezra  Wood ; 
"and  sleep  hearty,  without  fear  of  nobody  going 
through  your  clothes."  He  had  an  afterthought.  "Of 
course,"  he  added,  "there  ain't  no  bath  goes  with  the 
room." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  old  Mr.  Wood;  "I  took  a 
bath  before  I  come." 

"And  in  the  mean  time,"  the  lieutenant  added,  "if 
anything  breaks,  I'll  let  you  know." 

"The  Lord  bless  you,  Mr.  Officer,"  said  Ezra  Wood, 
"and  all  you  gentlemen.  You  know  the  old  saying: 
'No  kind  thing  was  ever  done  in  vain.'  "  He  turned 


AS  AMONG  FRIENDS  2$ 

again  to  the  lieutenant  and  gripped  the  officer's  out 
stretched  hand.  "And  I  hope  you'll  thank  the  commis 
sioner  for  me.  You  tell  him  how  sorry  I  am  to  give 
him  this  extra  trouble.  Only,  you  see,  we'd  worked 
so  hard  for  that  money,  and  skimped,  and  strove,  and 
we'd  waited  so  long  for  this  time  to  come,  and  thinking 
we  could  sort  of  let  up  a  little,  and  not  have  anything 
more  to  worry  about-; " 

"I  getcha,"  the  lieutenant  murmured. 

"And  now  New  York's  taken  it.  New  York!  New 
York!"  It  was  almost  a  sob,  but  the  cry  was  soft. 
"You're  right.  New  York  lives  on  what  it  takes  from 
the  country.  And  its  fodder  ain't  only  the  wheat  and 
the  corn  and  the  fruit  that  we  send  to  it,  either;  but 
our  faith  and  our  hopes  ! — our  dreams  and  our  children ! 
Where'd  you  come  from  ?"  he  suddenly  demanded,  whirl 
ing  on  the  lieutenant. 

"Galway,  Ireland !" 

"And  you?" 

"Three  Rivers,  Michigan." 

"And  you?" 

"Iowa." 

He  flamed  his  questions  at  the  various  policemen 
standing  there,  and  they  answered  him. 

"And  you?" 

His  eyes  for  a  moment  gleamed  into  those  of  the 
strange  youth  who  had  followed  him  here  from  the 
station. 

"I  was  born  here,"  the  young  man  said. 

"What   are  you   doing?     What   are   your  dreams? 


24  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

What  are  your  ideals?  What  is  this  town  doing  to 
you?" 

'Hie  old  man  didn't  await  an  answer.  After  a 
fashion  the  questions  had  been  answered  as  soon  as 
asked  by  the  boy's  silence  and  the  look  in  the  boy's 
face. 

"That's  it,"  Ezra  Wood  intoned  with  a  soft  but 
surprising  intensity.  "That's  it.  That's  what  New 
York  does — takes  a  little  dream,  or  an  ambition,  or 
an  ideal — from  Galway,  or  Michigan,  or  Iowa — and 

breaks  its  legs!  Lacerates  and  blinds The  body 

of  an  unidentified  girl !  Fresh  young  boys ! — flung  into 
the  hopper  of  asylums  and  prisons!  'Tain't  mere 
money  I  am  grieving  for.  Only — only " 

"Twas  all  he  had!" 

"Only,  when  it  was  lost — taken  from  me — stolen — 
those  'leven  hundred  dollars  that  were  our  sweat  and 
our  blood;  but,  most  of  all,  her  sweat  and  her  blood, 
and  she  a  helpin'  every  one  that  needed  help,  and  com- 

fortin'  the  afflicted "  He  broke  off.  "I  forget 

myself,"  he  said  with  dignity.  "You'll  not  forget  to 
thank  the  commissioner." 


CHAPTER  III 

INTO    THE    NIGHT 

EVEN  at  this  early  hour  there  was  something  grue 
some  in  the  quality  of  the  night.  The  day  had  held 
a  promise  of  spring,  but  now  the  wind  had  shifted 
around  to  the  northeast,  bringing  with  it  a  dampness 
and  a  chill.  The  poorest  of  the  city's  workers  were 
hurrying  home — the  men  and  women,  and  the  girls,  who 
work  on  through  to  six  and  half-past  six  in  the  shops 
and  factories. 

There  is  a  lightness  and  a  joy  about  a  good  many 
of  those  workers  who  leave  their  tasks  at  five.  They 
still  have  a  residue  of  strength  and  gaiety.  Those  who 
quit  at  half-past  five  are  always  duller,  sadder,  with 
still  less  power  to  react  from  the  drudgery  just  ended. 
But  those  who  quit  their  jobs  still  later  are  the  utterly 
forlorn,  the  utterly  fatigued. 

These  flowed  eastward  now  a  black  and  turgid  cur 
rent.  The  current  gave  tongue  and  spoke  with  all  the 
languages  of  the  world,  but  through  the  babble  there 
was  always  an  undertone  of  weariness. 

"Is  it  always  like  this?"  asked  Ezra  Wood. 

"It  is  at  this  hour,"  said  Tim,  the  policeman  who 
himself  was  almost  as  gray  and  old  as  the  man  from 
Rosebloom.  "  'Tis  what  the  lieutenant  said  it  was — 
a  slaughter-house  for  body  and  soul.'* 

25 


26  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"You've  stood  it,  friend,"  said  Ezra  Wood. 

"I  have,"  said  Tim,  "by  the  grace  of  God!" 

The  Boone  House  was  a  little  old-fashioned  hotel 
on  one  of  the  side  streets  just  off  Third  Avenue. 
There  was  a  plate-glass  window  to  either  side  of  its 
sooty  entrance.  One  of  these  revealed  the  office  and 
sitting-room,  where  sad  gentlemen,  respectable  but 
homeless,  sometimes  sat.  The  other  window,  partly 
curtained,  was  that  of  the  once  almost-famous  Boone 
House  restaurant,  which  still  did  a  fairly  good  occa 
sional  trade.  But,  despite  the  vicissitudes  that  had 
come  to  the  old  hotel,  it  looked  good  to  Ezra  Wood, 
and  his  heart  warmed  again  in  gratitude  to  the  friendly 
police. 

"I  thank  you,  sir,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  the 
old  officer  who  had  shown  him  the  way;  "and  I  hope 
you'll  tell  the  lieutenant  not  to  worry  too  much  if 
he  is  unable  to  recover  the  money." 

Officer  Tim  looked  at  the  other  gravely  for  a  dozen 
seconds. 

"I'll  tell  him,"  he  said.  "And  I've  got  a  feeling 
that  'twill  be  all  right  with  you,  most  likely  in  some 
way  we  can't  foresee." 

Himself  like  a  strange  fish  in  the  home-flowing  cur 
rent  of  workers,  that  youth  with  the  dark  eyes  who 
had  already  followed  the  old  man  of  Rosebloom  to  the 
police-station  had  set  out  to  follow  him  again.  He 
also  noticed  the  chill  and  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
For  that  matter,  he  noticed  also — as  if  he  were  seeing 
it  now  for  the  first  time — the  heavily  undulating  drift 


INTO  THE  NIGHT  27 

of  workers.  Their  voices  reached  him — Yiddish  and 
Greek,  Italian,  Slovak,  and  Hun — but  he  found  that 
he  was  translating  all  this  into  the  things  he  had 
heard  the  lieutenant  and  the  old  man  say: 

"Even  they  slip  up — and  then  good  night!" 

"The  Lord  have  pity  on  us  all!" 

"This  big  town's  going  to  eat  you  alive" 

He  kept  Ezra  Wood  and  the  policeman  in  sight,  al 
though  he  knew  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  doing 
this.  He  knew  where  they  were  going.  Only,  he 
seemed  to  derive  some  benefit  from  the  mere  spectacle 
of  the  old  man.  After  a  manner,  he  was  like  a  boy  who 
follows  a  circus  parade — fascinated,  getting  visions  of 
a  world  unknown,  yet  conscious  all  the  time  that  he's 
going  to  get  home  late  for  supper. 

He  turned  into  the  splotched  illumination  of  Third 
Avenue  not  far  behind  the  two  old  men.  He  paused. 
He  stared  for  a  moment  into  a  pawn-broker's  window. 
Overhead,  an  Elevated  train  thundered  on  its  way  to 
Harlem.  The  surface-cars  screeched.  The  crowds 
flowed  by  on  foot.  He  started  to  follow  again. 

He  was  at  the  office-window  of  the  Boone  House 
when  the  policeman  was  recommending  the  citizen  of 
Rosebloom  to  the  clerk,  and  tarrying  there  for  a  few 
more  words. 

The  old  man  had  taken  off  his  hat  again,  his  white 
hair  shining  through  the  dimness. 

"Good  night !"  the  youth  exclaimed  under  his  breath, 
and  he  was  off  in  the  direction  of  Third  Avenue,  going 
fast,  at  first,  then  more  slowly,  more  slowly  yet,  until 
he  came  to  an  indecisive  halt.  What  was  the  matter 


28  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

with  him?  What  was  biting  him  anyway?  "Good 
night,"  he  murmured  again — like  a  sesame  against  the 
spell  that  was  holding  him.  But  instead  of  wavering 
forward  he  wavered  back. 

The  next  time  that  he  looked  into  the  front  win 
dows  of  the  Boone  House  he  saw  that  the  old  man 
was  eating  his  supper  in  the  restaurant.  It  occurred 
to  the  youth  that  he  himself  was  hungry.  Why  not 
eat  here?  He  lingered  at  the  entrance.  He  again 
walked  away  swiftly,  but  dwindled  off  to  a  standstill. 

He  had  to  eat !     He  was  ravenous. 

There  was  an  oyster-booth  on  the  corner  of  the 
avenue,  and  presently  he  had  given  his  order  here 
for  a  couple  of  sandwiches.  But  scarcely  had  he  taken 
a  bite  out  of  the  first  sandwich  than  he  found  that 
he  wasn't  so  hungry  after  all.  He  paused  to  think 
and  forgot  to  chew.  He  wished  he  hadn't  ordered 
anything  at  all. 

While  he  stood  there,  an  old,  old  woman,  dressed 
in  black  and  very  dirty,  crept  up  with  the  unction 
of  a  hungry  cat. 

"Have  a  sandwich?"  said  the  youth. 

A  slow  smile  came  into  her  puckered  face.  Her 
breathless  voice  had  an  echo  of  sweetness  in  it. 

"It's  been  a  long  time,"  she  said,  "since  a  young 
gentleman's  invited  me  to  dine." 

She  was  still  smiling  as  she  hid  the  proffered  sand 
wich  under  her  shawl. 

"Here's  a  buck  to  go  with  it,"  said  the  youth. 

She  accepted  the  dollar  with  the  same  smiling  suavity 
and  rewarded  him  with  the  gleam  in  her  rheumy  old 


INTO  THE  NIGHT  29 

eyes.  And  she  was  telling  him  something  again — an 
intimate  confession  of  sorts  that  called  for  an  occa 
sional  grimace  of  modesty  on  her  highly  informed  old 
mask.  But  he  didn't  hear  her — for  two  reasons.  One 
reason  was  that  the  Elevated  trains  and  the  screeching 
cars  made  a  din  that  smothered  her  voice.  The  other 
reason  was  that,  louder  yet,  came  the  lieutenant's 
words : 

"They  aU  get  theirs!" 

Like  this  old  dame,  like  so  many  others  he  had 
known,  like  a  projection  of  himself  in  the  no-distant 
future. 

The  old  lady  was  still  mumbling  autobiographical 
bits — with  the  oysterman  for  audience  now;  only,  the 
oysterman,  having  heard  many  old  ladies  like  this  hold 
forth  on  similar  themes,  was  not  listening  particularly 
—when  the  youth  started  off  down  Third  Avenue. 

He  went  as  far  as  the  next  corner.  He  stopped 
there  to  let  an  auto  pass — and  found  himself  unable 
to  go  on — his  impulse  gone — invisible  hands  upon  him 
to  turn  him  back  once  more  in  the  direction  he  had 
come. 

"Suppose  I  telephone!" 

He  meditated  this.  He  knew  that  there  wasn't  a 
chance  in  a  million  of  the  old  man's  going  out.  Yes, 
this  was  the  idea.  Maybe,  like  that,  he'd  raise  the 
curse  that  had  put  the  nippers  on  him. 

There  was  a  cheap  little  tobacco-shop,  a  few  doors 
away,  with  a  blue  telephone  sign  on  its  window. 

"But  what'll  I  say?" 

He   entered   the   place.     He   bought   a   package  of 


30  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

cigarettes.  He  took  his  time  about  lighting  one  of 
these.  With  an  impulsive,  clinching  movement,  he 
turned  to  the  telephone-book  and  opened  it. 

"  'Boone — Boone  House' — and  I'm  a  nut !" 

He  squared  his  flat  and  shapely  shoulders.  He 
arched  his  neck,  pulled  in  his  chin.  He  strode  on  out 
of  the  place,  and,  at  the  door,  almost  bumped  into 
the  old  lady  of  the  oyster-booth.  She  peered  up  at  him. 
Perhaps  she  didn't  recognize  him  at  all,  but  she  smiled 
at  him,  graciously,  with  the  echo  of  an  ancient  gracious- 
ness. 

And  what  was  that  the  old  man  had  said  about — 
"No  kind  act " 

He  bit  his  cigarette  in  two.  He  hurled  it  to  the 
sidewalk.  This  was  certainly  fierce.  And  here  he 
was,  once  more,  in  the  street  that  had  called  him. 

Ezra  Wood  had  gone  up  to  his  room  in  the  Boone 
House.  It  was  a  large  room,  as  New  York  hotel  rooms 
go.  It  was  on  the  third  floor,  with  a  certain  air  of 
faded  splendor  about  it — and  if  he  could  have  a  room 
like  this  for  a  dollar,  possibly  he  might  have  got  a 
room  that  was  good  enough  for  fifty  cents;  but  he 
didn't  like  to  ask,  now  that  they  had  taken  the  trouble 
to  give  him  this  one.  And,  besides,  there  was  no  telling 
when  he  would  receive  a  visitor  from  headquarters — 
perhaps  from  the  commissioner  himself. 

He  would  have  liked  to  go  to  bed  at  once,  but  he 
scarcely  dared.  He  wondered  how  long  he  ought  to 
wait  up. 

The  room  was  in  the  rear,  with  two  windows  in  it 


INTO  THE  NIGHT  31 

that  commanded  a  dim  vista  of  neighboring  yards 
and  the  backs  of  houses,  and  the  glimmering  lights 
of  these;  and  the  human  noises  that  came  from  them 
— of  speech,  and  laughter,  and  squabbling  quarrels — 
all  fretted  the  strings  of  his  homesick  heart  with  a 
heavy  hand. 

He  had  taken  off  his  boots  and  his  coat,  and  drawn 
one  of  the  squashy  old  chairs  up  to  a  window  he  had 
opened.  And  he  seated  himself  there — smelling  the 
night,  hearing  its  strange  squeals  and  thunders,  yet 
battling  himself  betimes  to  overcome  the  mounting 
tumult  in  his  breast.  The  thing  to  do,  he  argued, 
was  to  be  brave  and  strong,  to  "stand  fast  in  the 
faith." 

But  he  moaned:     "Oh,  God  Almighty!" 

His  mind  came  reeling  back  to  a  consciousness  of 
present  things. 

Some  one  was  knocking  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE    BOOK    OF    REVELATION 

"COME  in,  sir!  Come  right  in!"  said  Ezra  Wood. 
"I  was  sort  of  expecting  you.  Although  I  don't  look 
it,"  he  added,  apologetically,  with  reference  to  his  un 
dress. 

He  could  see  that  the  young  man  in  the  hall  was  not 
a  member  of  the  hotel-staff,  although  the  light  was 
dim,  for  the  stranger  wore  a  hat — one  of  those  velours 
hats,  with  the  brim  pulled  down  on  one  side.  The 
light  in  the  hall  was  dim,  and  the  hat  further  shaded 
the  stranger's  face,  all  of  which  gave  him  a  certain  air 
of  mystery.  But  detectives  were  men  of  mystery.  The 
touch  of  mystery  was  heightened  by  the  stranger's 
reticence.  He  appeared  to  be  in  no  hurry  to  come  in. 
There,  for  a  fleeting  moment  or  so,  he  seemed  to  be 
on  the  point  of  betaking  himself  away. 

"Be  you  waiting  for  some  one  else?"  Mr.  Wood 
inquired. 

The  Boone  House  was  not  one  of  those  hotels  which 
announce  the  arrival  of  visitors.  There  was  no  way 
of  telling  whether  there  was  one  or  two. 

What  was  that  the  stranger  said?  It  was  a  sibilant 
whisper  at  the  best,  inarticulate.  Anyway,  he  was 
inside;  and,  once  inside,  he  lost  no  time.  While  Mr. 

32 


THE  BOOK  OF  REVELATION  S3 

Wood  was  still  closing  the  door,  with  patient  effort, 
for  the  lock  was  somewhat  out  of  order,  the  stranger 
went  swiftly  to  the  window  that  was  closed  and  drew 
the  blind,  then  went  with  equal  speed,  smoothly,  without 
noise,  to  the  window  that  was  open.  There  he  paused 
for  a  pair  of  seconds,  close  to  it,  but  a  little  to  one 
side,  looking  out.  Then  he  closed  the  window  and 
lowered  the  shade. 

All  this  in  the  time  that  it  had  taken  the  elder  man 
to  close  and  latch  the  door. 

"Did  you  come  from  the  commissioner,  or  did  the 
lieutenant  ask  you  to  come?"  Mr.  Wood  inquired.  "In 
any  case,  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  Won't  you  make  your 
self  comfortable?"  And  he  motioned  to  a  chair. 

As  yet,  both  of  them  were  standing;  and,  like  that, 
they  certainly  made  a  very  striking  contrast — old  Ezra 
Wood,  his  white  hair  uncovered  and  slightly  ruffled, 
his  bent  old  frame  loosely  clad  in  black,  except  for  his 
white  shirt-sleeves  and  his  gray,  home-knitted  socks; 
and  then  this  stranger — slender,  dark,  shabbily  dapper 
from  his  velours  hat  on  down  to  his  pointed,  light-tan, 
cloth-top  shoes.  He  still  wore  his  hat.  From  under 
it  his  dark  eyes  gleamed. 

Mr.  Wood  was  willing  that  his  guest  should  take 
his  own  time  about  speaking.  He  was  eager  to  put  the 
young  man  at  ease.  He  pulled  a  heavy  old  gold  watch 
from  his  vest-pocket  and  carefully  opened  it — not 
noticing  the  visitor's  glance  of  avid  interest. 

"What's  the  time?"  the  young  man  asked. 

"It  is  now — just  eight  o'clock." 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late." 


34  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

He  spoke  like  a  man  who  has  but  a  moment  to 
stay. 

"That's  the  hour,"  said  Mr.  Wood  with  calm  de 
cision.  "This  watch  is  a  marine-chronometer.  My 
uncle  sailed  his  ship  thrice  around  the  globe  and  no 
end  of  times  to  China  and  back  with  this  to  go  by." 

"What's  it  worth?" 

'''It's  priceless  to  me  because  of  him  who  owned  it — 
Reminds  me  of  him,  true-running,  never-failing,  a  mas 
terpiece  of  gold  and  steel.  Let's  see!  The  store  price? 
Oh,  maybe  five  hundred — maybe  six  hundred  dollars. 
Like  to  look  at  it?"  He  undid  the  watch  from  its 
guard.  He  passed  it  over.  "Sit  down!  Sit  down!" 

The  stranger  slid  down  to  the  edge  of  a  chair.  HP 
put  his  hat  on  the  floor.  He  had  taken  the  watch  and 
he  studied  it — while  Ezra  Wood  benignantly  studied 
him.  The  benignant  gaze  did  not  falter  when  the 
youth  suddenly  shifted  his  eyes,  but  not  his  position, 
<and  saw  that  he  was  being  observed. 

"You're  sort  of  young,  my  boy,  for  police  work," 
said  Ezra  Wood.  "Don't  it  keep  you  out  a  good 
deal  at  night?" 

"Sure!" 

^"How  do  you  like  it?" 

'"I  can't  kick." 

"You  certainly  have  some  agreeable  associates.  How 
'does  your  mother  like  it?" 

"What?" 

*'Your  work." 

'"Whose  mother?     My  mother?" 

•"Yes." 


THE  BOOK  OF  REVELATION  35 

"I  ain't  got  no  mother.     My  mother's  dead." 

"Ahr 

"Here,  take  your  watch  back.  What  you  want  to 
do — lose  it — like  you  lost  your  roll?" 

"Son" — it  was  a  question  that  had  been  storming 
the  mind  and  heart  of  old  Ezra  Wood  ever  since  he 
heard  the  knock  at  the  door — "have  you  brought  me 
any  word?" 

The  youth  hesitated.  He  flashed  a  smile.  He 
scowled  a  look  of  annoyance. 

"Say,"  he  demanded,  in  a  husky  whisper,  "what  do 
you  suppose  I  come  here  for?" 

Ezra  Wood  didn't  appear  to  notice  the  irony  of  the 
question.  He  accepted  it  as  a  blow  to  his  immediate 
hopes.  He  was  resigned.  He  was  calm.  He  took 
a  brief  interval  for  a  mental  and  moral  readjustment. 

"I  was  hopin',"  he  said,  stress  of  emotion  causing  him 
to  be  less  careful  of  his  speech  than  usual,  "I  was 
hopin',"  he  repeated.  He  was  the  homesick  old  farmer 
bewildered  amid  strange  surroundings.  From  not  very 
far  away  came  the  shaking  roar  of  an  Elevated  train. 
A  phonograph  scraped  shockingly  at  a  Sousa  master 
piece.  Beyond  the  zone  of  back  yards  a  man  and  a 
woman  howled  at  each  other  in  a  frenzy  of  hate.  There 
was  a  crash  of  glass,  a  shriek,  then  comparative 
silence.  "I'm  sorry  you've  lost  your  mother,"  he  con 
cluded. 

If  the  youth  himself  felt  any  sorrow,  he  gave  no  sign 
of  it.  Anyway,  his  mind  was  elsewhere. 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  come  here  for?"  he  re 
peated. 


36  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"There  was  only  one  thing  that  could  have  brought 
you." 

"You're  gettin'  wise." 

There  was  another  pause  for  reflection.  The  old 
man  must  have  noticed  the  closed  windows,  the  drawn 
blinds.  In  his  mental  survey  of  the  hotel  he  must 
have  perceived  how  easily  any  stranger  could  have 
gained  access  to  his  door  as  this  one  had  done. 

"Son,'*  said  Ezra  Wood,  blandly,  kindly,  "you  seem 
to  be  unhappy  about  something  or  other.  You  seem  to 
be  holding  something  back.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel 
put  out  on  my  account.  It  ain't  the  first  time  that 
I've  sort  of  had  to  fall  back  on  the  Lord  for  strength 
and  consolation.  He'll  take  care  of  us,  mother  and 
me.  He  always  has.  Now,  maybe  it's  something  that's 
happened  to  you.  I'm  an  old  man;  but,  lah!  I  ain't 
forgotten  the  days  of  my  own  youth — wild  days- 
mad  days — days  when  I  let  the  devil  get  the  better  of 
my  judgment.  Is  your  father  living?" 
~"Naw!" 

"Be  you  all  alone?" 

"Sure!" 

"If  it  ain't  asking  too  much,  what  church  do  you 
go  to?" 

«Who—me?" 

"Well,  never  mind.  I  suppose  the  Lord's  every 
where — here  in  New  York  the  same's  up  in  Rosebloom. 
That's  what  made  me  think  you  brought  me  some 
word.  Funny;  ain't  it?  But  I've  noticed  it  time  and 
again — when  something  or  other  had  happened  that 
seemed  just  a  leetle  more'n  I  could  stand — I'd  get  a 


THE  BOOK  OF  REVELATION  37 

sudden  feeling  of  relief,  comforting,  consoling,  and 
I'd  know  that  things  were  straightening  out.  Ever 
have  that  happen  to  you?" 

"I  got  to  beat  it,"  said  the  youth.  "I  got  a  date. 
I  didn't  know  it  was  so  late.  I  just  wanted  to  see 
if  you  was  here." 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was?" 

"Harris." 

"What's  your  first  name?" 

"Charley." 

"Charley  Harris,  eh?  Well,  Charley,  I  don't  want 
to  be  keeping  you,  but  I'm  mighty  glad  you  called. 
I'm  an  old  man.  I  was  feeling  pretty  lonely.  Son, 
are  you  quite  sure  I  can't  help  you  in  some  way 
or  other?  What  appears  to  be  ailin'  you?" 

The  youth  had  seized  his  hat  and  risen  to  his  feet. 
The  old  man  remained  seated.  He  gave  the  boy  a 
glance.  Then,  deliberately,  thoughtfully,  took  his 
watch  from  his  pocket  again  and  slowly  began  to  wind 
it. 

A  keen  observer  might  have  noticed  a  slight,  lurch 
ing  movement  on  the  part  of  the  visitor.  His  dark 
eyes  had  gone  to  the  timepiece  with  that  same  avid 
flicker  of  desire  that  had  been  there  before.  But  all 
this  was  very  fleeting,  barely  perceptible. 

"I  just  wanted  to  see  if  you  was  here,"  he  repeated. 

"Most  of  the  folks  are  in  bed  by  this  time  back 
home,"  the  old  man  mused.  "Another  day  done — 
crickets  chirpin',  wind  in  the  trees,  night  smellin'  of 
dew  and  early  bloom.  I  suppose  it  was  thinkin'  of  all 
that,  and  then  what  the  officer  said  over  to  the  statiqn- 


38  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

house  about  what's  goin'  on  here  in  this  great  city> 
that  made  me  realize  our  blessings." 

He  was  still  speaking  like  that,  absorbed,  as  the 
youth  silently,  stealthily  crossed  the  room  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  door.  The  old  man  hadn't  noticed  him. 
The  visitor's  movements  were  as  light  and  swift  as 
a  shadow's.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  knob.  But  there 
he  paused. 


CHAPTER  V 

REMISSION 

HE  turned  and  looked  back  of  him.  He  could  see 
nothing  of  the  old  man  but  a  crown  of  white  hair 
above  the  shabby  back  of  an  antiquated  easy  chair. 

The  visitor  drew  something-  from  the  breast-pocket 
of  his  elegant  but  somewhat  soiled  coat.  He  thrust 
it  back  again. 

He  silently  opened  the  door,  as  silently  closed  it 
again. 

Pie  looked  around  him. 

Almost  within  reach  of  his  hand  there  was  a  small 
marble-topped  table  of  a  design  once  fashionable.  The 
only  thing  on  this  was  a  dusty  little  coverlet  of  white 
cotton. 

With  a  movement  so  deft  and  lightning-quick  that 
it  would  have  served  a  sleight-of-hand  performer  m 
carrying  through  his  most  difficult  illusion,  the  visitor 
had  taken  something  once  more  from  his  breast-pocket 
and  hidden  it  under  the  coverlet. 

Even  so,  he  was  none  too  quick.  The  old  man 
had  turned,  was  peering  over  at  him. 

Had  the  old  man  seen  anything  the  visitor  didnt 
want  him  to  see?  It  was  hard  to  tell.  Most  likely 
he  had  not.  Mr.  Wood  got  up  from  his  chair — bent* 
rugged,  absorbed.  He  came  over  to  the  young  man* 

39 


40  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Will  I  see  you  again?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Fd  like  to  see  you  again.  I  sort  of  feel  as  if  you 
and  I  were  neighbors." 

"When  V  you  pullin'  out?" 

"I  suppose  it  will  be  to-morrow.  It  hurts  me, 
but  I'll  have  to  see  Mr.  Higginbotham.  Did  they  tell 
you  about  it?  He's " 

"Yeh!     I  got  all  that." 

The  visitor  gave  a  quick  glance,  unobserved,  at  the 
marble-topped  table. 

"It  hurts  me,  but  I'll  have  to  tell  him  what's  hap 
pened." 

"Was  the  money  for  him  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Ain't  he  one  of  those  rich  guys  ?" 

"I  believe  his  father  left  him  quite  a  bit  of  money." 
,  "Well,  what  did  he  need  this  for?" 

"He  may  not  have  needed  it,  but  it  was  his." 

"You  wouldn't  have  got  no  benefit  from  it?"  And 
the  visitor  shifted  his  position  somewhat  away  from 
the  door. 

The  old  man  let  one  of  his  hard  and  twisted  hands 
rest  on  the  marble-topped  table.  His  fingers  toyed 
with  the  dusty  coverlet. 

"Only  the  benefit  of  a  debt  paid,"  he  answered 
sweetly. 

"And  now  I  suppose  you  think  that  the  gun  who 
copped  your  leather  owes  you  something." 

"Do  you?" 

The    youth    who   had    given   his    name    as    Charley 


REMISSION  41 

Harris  turned  abruptly  to  the  door.  His  sudden 
movement  had  disarranged  the  table-cover. 

"I'm  not  thinkin',"  he  flung  back  savagely.  "To  hell 
with  thinkin'.  It  costs  too  much." 

He  was  putting  something  back  into  his  pocket — 
into  the  inside  pocket  of  his  somewhat  shabby  but 
stylish  coat.  And,  in  spite  of  all  his  manifest  embar 
rassment  and  indecision,  his  movements  had  remained 
as  swift  and  baffling  as  those  of  a  wild  animal  at 
bay.  He  would  have  been  out  of  the  door  right 
then — and  that  the  end  of  the  episode — but  the  crazy 
old  latch  refused  to  function  properly. 

The  delay  was  sufficient  to  permit  the  old  man  to 
react  from  his  surprise. 

"Charley !» 

The  word  was  an  appeal.  At  the  same  time  it  was 
something  of  a  command,  full  of  quiet  dignity,  also 
with  a  friendly  but  perfect  authority.  It  seemed  to 
penetrate  the  back  of  the  boy  at  the  door  and  fasten 
him  as  surely  as  a  harpoon  would  have  done.  The  youth 
turned.  He  did  this  slowly.  He  slued  around  and 
stood  there  panting  slightly,  like  one  utterly  exhausted. 

"What?"  he  gasped. 

The  old  man  merely  contemplated  him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  the  youth  repeated. 

"To  help  you." 

"I  don't — know  what  you  mean." 

"You're  young,"  said  Ezra  Wood,  softly.  "You're 
struggli»%  boy.  You're  strugglin'  'twixt  right  and 
wrong." 

"Where  do  you  get  that?" 


4«  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  Boy  and  man,  I've  seen 
God's  critters  struggle  like  that.  I've  struggled  like 
that  myself — wrestled  through  the  night.  If  ye  look 
for  it,  the  Almighty's  'most  always  there  ready  to  lend 
a  hand." 

The  words  were  gently,  calmly  spoken,  yet  with  a 
certain  thrill  of  exaltation  in  them. 

The  dark  eyes  of  the  youth  glowed  steadily  as  if 
they  were  unable  to  leave  the  other's  face.  The  boy 
was  breathing  deeply.  He  slowly  returned  his  right 
hand  to  the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat.  He  let  it  rest 
on  the  contents  of  the  pocket. 

As  one  who  watches  for  the  manifestations  of  some 
terrible  and  tragic  phenomenon,  he  drew  from  the 
pocket  that  thing  he  had  recently  hidden  under  the 
table-cover.  The  thing  was  an  old  wallet,  shiny  and 
brown. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  More  than  a  mo 
ment.  There,  for  almost  a  minute,  silence  was  dripping 
about  the  two  of  them  like  something  palpable — like 
rain. 

"Mine !"  breathed  Ezra  Wood,  with  an  intake  of  his 
breath. 

The  visitor  held  it  out  to  him — did  this  weakly,  as  if 
all  his,  so  to  speak,  feline  strength  and  speed  had  de 
serted  him.  His  own  face  was  going  as  white  as  the 
old  man's  face  had  been  over  there  in  the  railway- 
station.  His  life  was  concentrated  in  his  eyes.  With 
out  haste,  without  other  apparent  excitement  than  that 
shown  by  his  visibly  shaking  hand,  Ezra  Wood  re 
ceived  the  thing  he  had  lost. 


REMISSION  46 

"Count  it !" 

The  old  man  slowly  opened  the  wallet.  There  were 
eleven  bank-notes  in  it,  each  for  one  hundred  dollars. 

"So  you  were  from  headquarters,  after  all,"  the  old 
man  said  softly. 

"Sure !" 

There  was  nothing  to  indicate  that  the  symbolism  of 
this  occurred  to  either  of  them. 

"And  you  were  tempted." 

"What  do  you  think!     It  was  easy  money .** 

"Even  our  Lord  Jesus  was  tempted." 

"I  got  to  beat  it.  If  I  don't — say,  what  d'yuh 
mean — shakin'  a  wad  like  that  in  a  fellah's  face  if 
yuh  don't  want  him  to  nick  yuh — handin'  him  a  ticker 
'at's  good  for  another  five  hundred?" 

"Are  you  in  such  need?" 

"Sure!" 

"Will  you  take  what  you  need?  Charley,  I  had  a 
son,  but  he  was  born  in  the  country,  he  had  his  parents 
— unworthy — but  he  had  our  love.  I  know  now — I 
had  forgotten — that  the  country  is  a  protection — that 
it's  sweet,  and  tender,  and  pure.  There  are  some,  I 
suppose,  that  can  live  without  it.  Our  boy  couldn't. 
If  he'd  stayed  in  the  country  we  might  have  saved  him. 
But  here,  not  even  our  love,  nor  his  early  training, 
were  enough.  He  wasn't  strong,  and  if  you're  not 
strong " 

"Yuh  got  it  right — 'strong  like  a  hairy  gorilla* — " 

"The  city's  not  the  place  for  you.  Just  think! 
Spring  is  here — the  apple-orchards  all  drifted  with 
white,  and  the  birds — bluebirds  and  redbirds,  robins 


44  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  ITS  SO 

and  finches — swelling  their  little  breasts  with  song — 
and  the  meadows  getting  deeper  and  deeper  with  grass 
—and,  by  and  by,  the  grass  will  be  just  filled  with 
wild  strawberries.  All  this  under  a  sky  that  would 
make  you  understand  why  men  call  it  heaven — blue 
and  friendly — only  a  few  fleecy  clouds  to  serve  as 
ships  for  your  dreams. 

"And  after  spring,  the  summer's  there;  with  every 
day  'most  a  hundred  years  long,  each  year  a  happy 
lifetime — sunshine,  and  a  smell  of  mint,  of  hay  and 
apples,  and  the  big  woods  there  to  give  you  coolness 
and  shade,  a  spring  to  drink  from,  a  brook  making 
music,  and  at  last  a  sunset  proclaiming  the  glory  of 
God,  and  the  stars  His  long-suffering  mercy. 

"Son,  were  you  ever  in  the  country  in  the  autumn? 

"That's  the  time  of  the  harvest — crops  coming  in, 
pumpkins  in  the  corn,  stock  all  fat  and  slick  for  the 
county  fair,  plenty  for  every  one,  folks  laying  in  their 
supplies  for  the  winter.  And  I've  always  loyed  the 
winters — burning  hickory,  parching  corn,  smoke-house 
perfuming  the  valley  with  a  smell  of  new  bacon.  But, 
no — it  wa'n't  this  that  has  always  made  me  love  the 
winter  so.  I  loved  it  for  the  big,  clean  winds  and  the 
miles  of  untrodden  snow,  for  the  sparkly  nights  when 
every  star  might  be  the  star  of  Bethlehem ;  and  I  loved 
it  for  the  kitchen  stove,  where  Martha  and  I  have 
always  sat  on  winter  nights  and  sort  of  had  our  little 
children  back. 

"But  it's  spring  in  the  country  now.  Can't  you 
sort  of  hear  it  calling?  I  can  : 

to  me,  all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden!' 9 


CHAPTER  VI 

NEAE    CHATHAM    SQUAEE 

IN  the  meantime,  New  York's  change  of  weather  had 
culminated  in  a  sleety  rain,  and  the  city  had  become, 
more  than  ever,  a  place  of  disconcerting  contrast — 
of  mortuary  black  and  garish  color ;  of  dripping  trees 
in  haunted  parks  and  juggernaut  traiHc  in  howling 
streets ;  of  shivering  poor  in  places  that  were  damp  and 
dark,  and  of  blatant  luxury  in  places  that  were  warm 
and  brMliant. 

Moreover,  it  was  Wednesday — with  here  and  there, 
in  somfeer  neighborhoods,  an  oasis  of  yeUow  light  where 
a  church  presented  its  mild  invitation  to  prayer-meet 
ing. 

But,  unless  all  signs  failed,  the  devil  also  was  keeping 
open  h©use — dirty  and  discreet,  sinister  and  cordial- 
there  where  the  rear  doors  of  saloons  were  open,  and 
where  the  scarlet  lobbies  of  obscure  hotels  insinuated 
secrecy  and  welcome,  and  Oriental  restaurants,  stealthy 
clubs,  throbbing  dance-halls,  and  noisy  but  secretive 
flats,  al]  offered  forgetfulncss  and  mystery. 

Night,  for  much  of  the  world;  but  the  day  was 
just  beginning  for  a  certain  saloon,  especially  in  the 
back  room  thereof. 

45 


46  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Where's  Chick?" 

"Ain't  seen  him.     What'll  you  have?" 

"Hello,  there,  Solly!" 

"  *Lo,  Phil!     Have  a  drink." 

"Watchures?" 

"Me?     I'm  takin'  a  little  old-fashioned  mixed." 

"That's  good  enough  for  me." 

"Two  mixed  ales,  Eddie.     Seen  Chick?" 

Outside  and  overhead,  an  Elevated  train  squealed 
through  its  thunder  as  it  rounded  the  curve  in  Chatham 
Square. 

"Came  here  to  see  him  myself,"  said  Phil,  glancing 
about  the  back  room  of  the  Commodore.  He  was  a 
well-favored  youth,  engaging,  vicious.  Both  he  and 
Solly  were  better  dressed  than  the  other  male  customers 
present.  Phil  shot  the  next  question  at  Sollj  from 
the  corner  of  his  mouth:  "Goin'  to  join  the  mob?" 

"Whose— Chick's?" 

Solly  was  a  cherub,  pink,  two  hundred  pounds.  The 
other  gave  him  a  glance  of  cynical  amusement.  Solly 
was  so  used  to  playing  the  part  of  dull  innocence  that 
he  couldn't  drop  it  even  among  friends.  But  a  glint 
of  hard  wisdom  flickered  for  an  instant  in  Solly's  baby- 
blue  eyes.  It  was  answer  enough. 

"Here's  luck,"  said  Phil,  picking  up  one  of  the 
glasses  that  Eddie  placed  on  their  table. 

"Drink  hearty!" 

Over  the  receding  thunder  of  the  Elevated  train  and 
the  maudlin  racket  of  the  room,  they  could  hear  a 
thump  of  tambourines  and  then  a  crescendo  chorus: 


NEAR  CHATHAM  SQUARE  4? 

"At   the   cross,   at   the   cross, 
Where  I  fir-rest  saw  the  light." 

At  the  door  to  the  dark  hallway  leading  to  the  street 
appeared  a  slim  young  girl  with  brilliant  eyes  and  other 
indications  of  consumption  about  her  delicate  and 
pretty  face.  She  was  dressed  in  black.  Her  brown 
hair  was  waved  plainly  down  over  her  ears  in  that 
style  once  made  famous  by  Cleo  de  Merode.  And  her 
hat  might  have,  almost,  belonged  to  one  of  those  singers 
out  there  in  the  army  of  salvation. 

She  advanced  to  the  table  where  Solly  and  Phil  were 
seated. 

"My  God !"  she  said.     "What  a  night !" 

"Hello,  Belle!"  said  SoUy.  "Hello,  Irene!"  said 
Phil. 

But  there  was  no  disagreement  when  they  asked  her 
to  sit  down,  state  her  wishes  in  the  matter  of  refresh 
ment.  The  girl  herself  seemed  to  attach  no  importance 
at  first  to  the  fact  that  they  had  called  her  by  different 
names.  The  barkeep  came  forward,  swinging  his 
shoulders  like  a  boxer  feinting  for  a  lead. 

"Hello,  Eddie !"  she  greeted  him. 

"Hello,  Blanche!" 

"Say,  you  boys  call  me  Myrtle  after  this,  will  you?" 
The  girl  reflected.  "Rock-and-rye,  Eddie!"  And  she 
added :  "I  want  to  change  my  luck.  Where's  Chick  ?" 

"Maybe  he's  been  pinched,"  Phil  suggested  with  a 
grin. 

"Him?"  cried  Myrtle.  "The  bull  ain't  been  born 
that'll  get  anything  on  Chick." 


48  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Many  a  good  man's  got  his,"  mused  Solly,  pa 
ternal. 

"I  wonder  where  he  is,"  said  the  girl. 

"Out  enjoyin'  a  stroll,"  said  Phil,  he  being  a  hu 
morist. 

"He's  planning  some  new  riot,"  Solly  averred. 

Solly  was  right. 

The  youth  of  the  dark  eyes  had  torn  himself  away 
rather  abruptly  from  the  old  gentleman  in  the  Boone 
House.  He  had  done  this  with  the  instinctive  panic 
of  a  man  who  finds  himself  at  grips  with  a  power  that 
he  cannot  comprehend.  He  had  never  read  the  story 
of  Jacob  and  the  Strange  Man,  and  the  wrestling- 
match  that  lasted  till  dawn,  but  he  was  feeling  a  good 
deal  as  Jacob  must  have  felt. 

Why  should  be  have  lost  his  nerve  in  this  old  man's 
presence? 

No,  it  wasn't  a  matter  of  nerve.  He  had  kept 
his  nerve,  all  right,  or  he  couldn't  have  followed  the 
old  man  to  the  police-station,  stuck  around  during 
all  that  followed. 

Why  hadn't  he  been  able  to  make  his  getaway  when 
there  was  nothing  to  stop  him?  Why  did  he  come 
over  here  to  the  Boone  House  right  at  the  time  when 
a  flick  from  headquarters  was  due  to  show  up?  Since 
he  had  shown  up,  how  camcj  it  that  he  hadn't  palmed  the 
old  geezer's  watch? 

That  was  the  way  his  thoughts  ran. 

But  back  of  these  superficial  riddles  there  remained 


NEAR  CHATHAM  SQUARE  41) 

an  instinctive,  unshaken  knowledge  to  the  effect  that 
some  great  change  had  occurred  in  his  life,  that  he 
would  never  hereafter  be  the  same.  Again  like  Jacob 
— only  this  boy  didn't  know  it — his  thigh  was  out  of 
joint,  but  he  was  blessed. 

Beyond  the  door  at  which  he  still  lingered,  he  could 
still  see — with  the  eye  of  his  mind — the  old  man  he 
had  just  left,  could  see  him  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
his  stocking  feet,  an  innocent,  bewildered  old  hick, 
absolutely  helpless,  a  child  in  need  of  a  guardian. 

"A  poor  old  rube!" 

That  was  what  he  was  trying  to  tell  himself. 

But  all  the  time  that  he  was  trying  to  tell  himself 
this  there  was  another  voice  that  shamed  him,  that 
presented  to  him  this  man  in  there  in  the  semblance 
of  no  man  he  had  ever  seen  before — bigger  than  most 
men,  white  and  shining,  with  power  to  do  with  other 
men  as  he  willed. 

The  same  voice  was  telling  him  that  he  would  never 
see  this  white  and  shining  giant  in  there  again,  but 
that  this  would  make  no  difference. 

He  had  been  thrown,  and  thrown  hard.  There  would 
be  a  limp  in  his  make-up  forever  more. 

But  he  had  been  blessed! 

He  never  did  quite  know  how  he  got  out  into  the 
street  again.  He  was  so  absorbed  in  wondering  what 
had  happened  to  him  that  it  was  only  some  time  later 
that  he  noticed  the  sleety  rain,  the  mortuary  black 
and  the  garish  color  of  the  New  York  he  had  always 
known — remembered  that  he  had  a  date  with  friends. 


50  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Far  down-town,  where  Park  Row  and  the  Bowery 
meet — like  a  rowdy  old  beau  and  a  beldame  with  a  past 
— the  young  man  of  the  dark  eyes  left  the  Elevated 
train  that  had  brought  him  south.  He  was  shaken. 
He  was  muttering  to  himself. 

"Comin'  down  fer  a  card  of  hop,"  was  the  com 
ment  of  a  gateman  who  saw  him  pass. 

But  he  felt  as  if  he  had  been  drugged  already,  if 
the  truth  were  known.  So  much  to  think  about!  Yet 
thought  almost  impossible! 

Still  he  was  thinking,  thinking,  with  such  intensity 
that  he  passed  them  by  and  noticed  them  not — the 
slippered  Chinamen,  the  coal-stained  men  of  the  sea,  the 
befuddled  women,  the  lurking  gangsters.  The  sleet 
smote  him.  He  merely  lowered  his  head. 

He  entered  the  "family-entrance"  of  the  Commodore. 
He  also  paused  at  that  door  where  the  girl  in  black  had 
stood  a  while  ago. 

"And  there's  Chick  now!"  said  Myrtle. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   BIG  IDEA 

CHICK  came  over  to  the  table  where  his  friends  were 
seated,  slid  the  vacant  chair  into  position,  dropped 
into  it.  Since  that  first  glance  from  the  other  side 
of  the  room  he  hadn't  looked  at  his  friends.  During 
most  of  the  conversation  that  followed,  his  eyes  were 
elsewhere.  There  was  no  special  occasion  for  it,  per 
haps,  but  hardly  at  any  time  would  his  voice  have  car 
ried  beyond  the  table. 

As  for  his  friends,  neither  Solly  nor  Phil  had  given 
him  more  than  a  shifty  glance.  But  Myrtle  looked 
at  him,  frankly,  openly,  except  when  he  happened  to 
look  at  her.  Neither  did  they  speak  loudly. 

"Hello!"  said  Chick. 

"How's  the  boy?"  Solly  wanted  to  know. 

"Watcha  been  pullin'?"  Phil  demanded.  "Been  here 
an  hour." 

Eddie,  the  bartender,  came  up,  rolling  his  shoulders. 
He  had  a  smile  for  Chick,  a  scowl  for  a  noisy  cus 
tomer  at  another  table. 

"Ask  'em  what  they  want,"  said  Chick.  "Bring  me 
a  schooner-glass  of  milk  with  a  couple  of  eggs  in  it." 
He  slanted  a  look  at  Myrtle.  "Coughin*  again,  ain't- 

51 


52  IP  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

cha,  kid?  Bring  a  glass  of  milk  for  her,  Eddie,  but 
make  it  hot." 

"Gotcha,"  said  Eddie,  and  sidled  away. 

"  'Smatter  with  the  boy?"  asked  Solly. 

"Needs  some  booze  to  cheer  him  up,"  Phil  volun 
teered. 

"Wait  till  he's  had  his  breakfast,"  Myrtle  recom 
mended,  without  reference  to  the  hour.  "Can't  you 
see  that  he  hasn't  had  anything  to  eat?  You'd  be  that 
way,  too,  if  you'd  just  got  up." 

"You  got  me  wrong,"  said  Chick.     "All  of  you." 

"What's  the  answer?" 

"Nothin's  the  matter  with  me.  I  don't  need  no 
booze.  I  didn't  just  get  up.  I've  just  been  doin'  a 
little  thinkin',  that's  all.  I  got  a  big  idea." 

"If  it's  like  that  last  big  idea  of  yours  when  we 
worked  the  wine-agents'  ball,"  said  Solly,  "come 
across.'* 

"Nothin'  doin'  along  that  line." 

"Another  mill  in  Madison  Square?"  guessed  Phil. 

"Wait'll  he's  had  his  breakfast." 

"I'm  goin'  to  hand  it  straight  to  you  three,"  saJd 
Chick.  "You've  treated  me  straight.  You're  about 
the  only  ones  that  ever  did.  You're  the  only  pals  I 
have." 

He  paused.  An  aged  drunk  was  squabbling  with 
himself  in  a  corner.  Strained  through  the  windows  of 
the  place,  between  the  intermittent  rumble  and  roar 
of  Elevated  trains,  there  came  the  discordant,  nasal 
whine  of  a  Chinese  flageolet. 


' 


I 


Honest,    and    on    the    level,    how    long    do    you    think    it   is   goin'    to    be    before    you    al 

get    yours  f' 


THE  BIG  IDEA  53 

"Honest  and  on  the  level,  how  long  do  you  think 
it's  goin'  to  be  before  you  all  get  yours?" 

It  was  as  if  all  sounds  stopped.  The  effect  of 
Chick's  question  was  silence.  The  silence  was  absolute, 
so  far  as  the  four  at  the  table  were  concerned.  Solly 
took  out  a  cigar,  bit  the  end  from  it,  spat  out  the 
end,  struck  a  match,  then  looked  at  Chick  through  the 
bobbing  flame  as  he  lighted  up.  Phil  gave  Chick  a 
lingering  look  from  the  corner  of  his  eyes;  his  thin 
mouth  went  cruel.  Myrtle  stared  wide-eyed,  startled,  a 
little  frightened. 

Solly  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "Maybe  I'll  retire, 
or  something ;  start  a  saloon ;  go  over  and  live  in 
England  or  France.  I  will,  when  I  get  the  big  stake." 

"What's  bitin*  yuh?"  asked  Phil. 

Chick  stuck  to  his  line  of  thought. 

"Where's  Silver  Smith?  Joliet!  Roscoe  Flynn, 
who  stalled  for  him?  Up  the  river!  Where's  Curly, 
and  Clivvers,  and  Big  Jones ;  Mary  Mack,  and  Boston 
Sue?  Ask  the  island  or  the  morgue." 

"My  God,  Chick,  don't!"  said  Myrtle. 

"You  get  it,  kid,"  said  Chick. 

"They  was  thrown  by  their  crooked  pals,'*  said 
Phil.  "Either  that,  or  the  old  stuff  got  >em,  or  the 
snow." 

"You  ain't  comparing  yourself,  Chick,  with  that 
bunch  of  rummies,  are  you?  Not  to  mention  ourselves." 

"They  were  all  as  good  as  any,  in  their  day." 

"But  not  like  you!" 

"Not  in  one  respect.     They  stayed  too  long." 


54  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"And  they  didn't  have  the  chances  you  got,"  said 
Solly.  "Why,  boy " 

"You  make  me  sick,"  Chick  broke  in.  "Chances ! 
Chances!  What  chances  did  I  ever  have?  Brought 
up  by  a  wood-merchant — learned  how  to  swipe  every 
thing  I  could  get  my  hands  on  before  I  was  ten  years 
old;  taken  on  by  Blodgett,  the  Dutch  house  man,  and 
almost  got  beaten  to  death;  and  would  have  been  if 
Muscowsky  hadn't  taken  me  to  help  him  work  the 
lofts ;  and  after  Muscowsky,  the  Hessian,  for  stores ; 
and  after  the  Hessian,  young  Billy  Gin,  for  store-win 
dows;  and  after  Billy  Gin,  Old  Doc,  the  cleverest  dip 
of  'em  all. 

"Chances! 

"I've  had  my  luck — in  not  getting  mine — when  the 
bull  dropped  Blodgett  from  the  roof,  or  when  Muscow 
sky  was  shot.  Where's  the  Hessian?  Twenty  stretches. 
Billy  Gin?  Makin'  faces  in  a  straight- jacket!  Old 
Doc  ?  Dead  at  thirty-three ! 

"I've  never  had  no  chances.  Has  any  one  worked 
harder  than  me  ?  Has  any  one  tried  to  play  straighter 
with  his  pals?  Haven't  I  left  the  booze  alone?"  He 
gave  Myrtle  a  look  that  made  her  drop  her  eyes. 
"Haven't  I  been  straight  and  fair  in  other  ways? 
Have  I  ever  broke  trainin' — always  been  able  to  do 
my  turn  in  the  ring  as  a  stall  at  havin'  a  profession? 
And  what's  the  result  of  it  all?  I'm  broke.  This  old 
town's  broke  me.  You  got  to  have  a  thinker  on  you 
like  Thomas  A.  Edison  or  a  good  thing  like  Rockefeller 
— get  me?  Or  tough  like  an  elephant,  or  strong  like 


THE  BIG  IDEA  55 

a  monk,  or  slick  like  a  snake,  and  then  some — get  me? 
Or  this  old  town'll  eat  you  alive !" 

Solly  dropped  a  slow  wink  at  Phil,  and  Phil  grinned 
cruelly. 

"Eat  your  breakfast,  Chick,"  Myrtle  urged. 

"Drink  hearty !"  said  Solly,  lifting  his  glass. 

"Lookin'  atcha,"  said  Phil. 

There  was  another  comparative  lull  in  the  noises  of 
the  night.  The  aged  bacchanal  in  the  corner  was 
mumbling  now.  As  the  youth  of  the  dark  eyes  looked 
at  him,  perhaps  there  was  a  dissolving  away  of  the 
coarser  colors  and  the  coarser  lines  until,  under  the 
same  sort  of  white  hair  that  he  had  seen  once  before, 
this  night,  there  appeared  a  milder,  kindlier  face.  He 
flashed  his  eyes  at  Solly. 

Solly  grinned.  He  hadn't  liked  Chick's  talk,  but 
he  was  getting  his  cherubic  humor  back. 

"If  it  was  any  one  but  the  boy,"  he  said,  "I'd  back  me 
guess  that  he'd  got  a  green  pill.  It's  the  weather  that's 
got  to  you,  my  boy.  Let  Eddie  put  a  finger  of  rum  in 
the  slop." 

"Leave  him  alone,"  said  Myrtle. 

"I've  talked  to  you  fair  and  on  the  level,"  said 
Chick.  "There's  the  big  auto  meet  down  at  the  bay 
next  week.  I  suppose  you  boys'll  be  there." 

"With  bells  on,"  said  Phil. 

"And  what's  the  big  idea?"  asked  Sol. 

"Oh,  nothin'  very  much,"  said  Chick,  but  his  voice 
quivered.  "I'm  quitting.  That's  all !  I'm  blowin'  the 
game!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TESTIMENTAL 

IP  there  had  been  an  effect  of  silence  following  Chick's 
words  a  little  while  before,  his  words  now  were  in  the 
nature  of  a  sputtering  fuse  preliminary  to  an  explosion. 
Nothing  deadly.  Something  in  the  way  of  fireworks. 

Solly  let  out  a  guffaw. 

Phil  stiffly  turned  his  head  for  another  sidelong 
glance,  derisive,  his  thin  mouth  expanded  in  a  snake- 
like  grin. 

Myrtle  rested  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  on 
her  hands,  her  wide  eyes  staring,  the  fine  vapor  of  the 
drink  in  front  of  her  slowly  exhausting  itself  like 
some  tenuous,  disappearing  hope. 

That  was  all  for  a  while.  The  Chinese  musician 
played.  There  was  the  sound  of  a  brief  but  vigorous 
encounter  between  two  belligerent  thugs  in  the  street. 
Through  the  odorous  air, of  the  room  there  crept  an 
added  aroma  of  chop-suey  and  incense. 

"I'm  blowin*  the  game,"  Chick  repeated  in  a  whisper, 
and  his  fashion  of  saying  it  indicated  that  he  said  what 
he  did  for  his  own  enlightenment  as  much  as  that  of 
the  others.  Also  there  was  an  implication  that  he  was 
surprised  by  the  declaration  as  much  as  any  one ;  yet, 
that  he  understood  it  perfectly,  that  it  was  the  result 

56 


TESTIMENTAL  57 

of  all  his  hard  thinking — groping;  thought  which  at 
the  time  had  seemed  to  be  blind. 

"Yuh  talk  about  me  having  chances,"  he  said  with 
soft  but  passionate  intensity.  "No  guy's  ever  had  a 
chance  unless  he  got  started  right.  There's  only  one 
place  where  yuh  can  get  started  right — there's  only  one 
place  where  most  of  us  can  keep  right — get  me?  And 
that's  out  in  the  country." 

"He's  wisin*  up,"  said  Phil,  "to  what  I  tells  him 
about  Saratoga  and  French  Lick." 

Chick  did  not  reply.  He  hadn't  even  heard.  To 
one  who  could  have  understood,  his  dark  eyes  would 
have  told  the  tale — eyes  that  saw  a  vision.  The  sordid 
walls  of  the  back  room  had  disappeared — blue  paint, 
dirty  plaster,  fly-blown  lithographs  of  prize-fighters, 
burlesque  queens,  and  once-famous  horses;  these  had 
disappeared,  and  in  their  place  was  a  melting  prospect 
of  apple-orchards  white  with  bloom,  then  a  sunset,  then 
a  wide  sky,  silent,  fiery  and  nebulous  with  the  billion 
stars.  Perhaps,  even,  the  mingled  reek  of  beer  and 
tobacco,  chop-suey  and  incense,  yielded  to  a  cleaner 
breath.  Most  of  the  visions  that  men  have  are  atavis 
tic,  have  nothing  to  do  with  present  experience. 

"What  do  you  know  about  the  country?"  Solly 
asked. 

"NothinV 

"What  do  yuh  think  it  is — just  a  sort  of  zoo  full 
of  hicks  waitin'  to  be  trimmed?" 

"I  never  been  outside  of  New  York  City  in  my  life," 
said  Chick,  absorbed.  He  faced  them,  a  little  sullen, 
ready  to  fight.  "But  I  know  I'm  goin'.  That's  all. 


58  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

We're  the  rubes  and  the  hicks — if  yuh  come  down  to 
it — us  guys  that  stick  around  here  in  the  slums  waitin' 
for  the  cell-block,  or  the  island,  or  the  morgue.  Get 
me?  I  gives  you  the  dope.  This  big  town  eats  yuh 
alive." 

"Chick's  lost  his  noive,"  Phil  grinned.  "He's  made  a 
bad  play.  It's  trun  a  scare  into  him." 

''Guess  again,"  Chick  countered,  with  a  subdued  but 
deadly  menace  that  was  to  put  Philly  out  of  the  argu 
ment  for  a  while.  "I  put  one  over  to-day  at  the  Grand 
Central  'at  'd  made  you  swell  out  your  chest  for  the 
rest  of  your  natural.  I'm  out  in  the  train-shed — see? 
— with  a  local  comin'  in.  I  pipes  one  of  these  rubes 
comin'  down  the  steps.  Bulls  and  specials  all  around 
— smoke-porters  swarmin' — not  a  chance  in  a  million  to 
make  the  getaway.  And  I  touches  the  rube — for — one 
— thousand — bones !" 

"For  the  love  of  Mike !" 

"My  Gawd!" 

"Me  lost  my  nerve  ?  Fergit  it !  I  listens  in  when  the 
hick  makes  his  squeal — I  tails  him  to  the  house — I  gets 
my  hunch — I  hands  him  back  his  roll — I'm  through !" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  my  boy,"  Solly  inquired,  "that 
you  nicked  the  jay  for  a  thousand?" 

"One  thousand  one  hundred." 

"And  you  make  your  getaway?" 

"Clean." 

"An'  'en  you  hand  it  to  him  back?" 

"You  heard  me." 

Solly  looked  at  Phil.  "You  get  your  other  gueas, 
all  right.  Chick  ain't  lost  his  nerve  nor  nothin'.  Say, 


TESTIMENTAL  59 

it'd  take  the  nerve  of  a  dentist  to  pull  a  thing  like 
that — then  tell  it!" 

"Yuh  fat  gonef " 

Myrtle  interposed. 

"Say,  ain't  Solly  the  limit?  Neither  him  nor  Phil's 
got  a  brain  for  anything  higher'n  a  ham  sandwich. 
I'll  go  to  the  country  with  you,  Chick,  if  you  want 
me  to.  The  doctor  says  I  ought  to  go." 

Chick  looked  at  the  girl.  She  tried  to  brazen  him 
out,  but  there  was  a  shade  of  wistfulness  about  her. 
She  wavered.  She  shrank. 

"You're  all  right,  Myrtle,"  he  said  to  her,  almost 
as  if  there  was  no  one  else  there  to  hear.  "Yuh  got 
your  faults,  but  yuh  got  a  heart,  and  y'  ain't  dead 
from  the  neck  up.  And,  so  far's  I  know,  you're  still 
as  straight  as  they  make  'em.  Keep  that  way,  kid. 
Do  you  know  what  I'm  goin'  to  do  for  you?  I'm 
goin'  to  take  you  up  to  the  Penn  Depot  and  give  yuh 
a  shove  'at'll  put  yuh  in  Denver.  Ain't  that  the  place 
the  doctor  said?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"I'm  goin'  to  stake  yuh.  That's  all  for  you.  If  yuh 
ever  think  about  me  again,  just  sort  of  pull  for  me, 
kid,  because  I'll  be  needin'  it,  maybe,  more'n  you." 

The  little  speech,  and  the  simple,  mortal  directness 
of  Chick's  mood,  impressed  the  other  two  men.  Solly 
was  moved  to  further  speech,  but  he  was  subdued. 

"The  boy  ain't  sore  at  his  old  pal!" 

For  a  moment,  however,  Chick  ignored  him.  Chick 
was  still  addressing  Myrtle,  ostensibly,  although  Myrtle 
was  apparently  letting  her  interest  waver.  Myrtle,  it 


60  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

seemed,  had  got  something  in  her  eye  and  was  having 
trouble  to  extract  it. 

"You're  going  to  do  what  I  tell  yuh,  kid.  Go  out 
West  where  the  cowboys  are.  A  year  from  now,  and 
yuh  can  put  it  over  on  this  here  Daughter  of  the 
Gods.  Get  me?  And  some  nice  young  feller's  going 
to  pick  you  out  and  find  he's  got  a  winner.  Cut  out 
the  guys  like  me  and  Solly  and  Phil.  You  know— 
the  wise  ones! — so  damn  wise  they  can't  see  what's 
comin'  to  'em  even  when  they  get  the  straight  tip." 

Solly  was  sober,  but  he  was  cynical. 

"So  it's  the  old  reform!"  he  droned,  tongueing  his 
cigar  and  taking  Chick  in  with  narrowed  eyes. 

"What  yuh  got  against  it?" 

"Nothing!  Nothing!"  Solly's  voice  registered 
weary  patience.  "Only,  what's  the  use  of  your  takin' 
to  the  bushes?  Get  a  political  job  here  in  New  York 
like  a  lot  o'  others." 

"Yeh — and  keep  on  bein'  a  crook — like  them  !'*  But 
Chick  could  see  that  his  friend  was  sincere.  "I  want 
to  get  away  from  the  crooks  and  the  crooked  stuff  be 
fore  it  gets  me,"  he  explained  with  desperate  persistence. 
"I  want  to  get  out  where  the  apples  grow,  and  the 
little  birds  are  red  and  blue  and  know  how  to  sing.  Get 
me?  And  where  the  people  are  so  honest  that  they 
don't  have  to  lock  their  doors  at  night.  Why,  say ! 
Here  in  New  York  a  guy  can't  get  into  his  own  house 
without  a  bunch  of  pass-keys,  and  every  other  guy 
you  meet  in  the  street  is  a  bull  or  a  gun,  or  somethin'. 
How  do  yuh  expect  a  feller  to  keep  straight  when  he's 
up  against  no  thin'  but  bull-con  and  flimflam,  rough- 


TESTIMENTAL  61! 

house  and  fakes,  sniffs  and  smokes,  creepers  and — ah, 
what's  the  use !  Yuh  know  what  I  mean !" 

"If  yuh  mean,"  said  Solly,  "that  your  rubes  are  a 
bunch  of  plaster  angels  with  wings  on  their  backs,  some 
body's  been  handin'  yuh  the  wrong  line  o*  dope.  I 
know.  I  was  born  in  the  country  myself.  And  for  all 
your  dirty,  low-down  crooks,  Chicky,  gimme  your  hick 
crook — skinnin'  each  other  out  of  peanuts ;  hookin' 
pennies  from  old  women ;  sousin'  on  the  sly ;  takin'  dirty 
money  with  both  mitts  on  week-days  and  wearin*  white 
neckties  on  Sunday." 

"That  ain't  the  kind  I'm  goin'  up  against,"  said 
Chick  m  his  slightly  stifled  voice. 

"Where  are  you  goin'  to,  then?"  Solly  inquired. 
"The  moon?" 

"No,  I  ain't  goin'  to  the  moon,"  Chick  replied  with  a 
dogged  grip  on  his  vision  or  his  hunch.  "But  I'm  goin'' 
back — get  me?  'Way  back!" 

"And  who  is  this,"  came  a  paternal  voice,  "who 
speaks  ©f  going  back — 'way  back?" 


CHAPTER  IX 


"GRANDPA  !"  Solly  almost  sobbed. 

To  judge  by  Solly's  accent,  and  the  expression  in 
Solly's  cherubic  face,  the  newcomer  really  was  some 
cherished  relative — ancient  and  beloved — one  whose 
presence  was  a  gift  from  Heaven  almost  too  good  to 
be  true. 

"  'Way  Hack !  'Way  back !"  And  he  solemnly  wagged 
his  head. 

He  would  have  been  a  remarkable  personage  in  any 
place  of  assembly,  but  most  of  all  in  the  back  room 
of  the  Commodore. 

Phil  was  the  next  to  recognize  him.  Into  Phil's 
cynical  but  well-favored  countenance  there  came  a 
touch  of  amazement,  also  of  respect  flavored  with  awe. 

"Sky-blue!"  breathed  Phil. 

At  the  pronouncement  of  that  fabulous  name  Chick 
turned. 

His  first  impression  was  of  a  cascade  of  white  whis 
kers,  then  of  black  broadcloth  and  a  gold  chain.  It 
was  only  an  instant  later  that  he  met  the  friendly 
twinkle  of  a  pair  of  the  brightest  and  keenest  eyes 
his  own  eyes  had  ever  met.  They  belonged  to  a  man 
who  couldn't  have  been  much  less  than  seventj.  His 

62 


"SKY-BLUE"  63 

ministerial  and  hoary  benevolence  was  rather  empha 
sized  by  the  fact  that  he  wore  a  peculiar  hat — shaped 
like  a  plug  hat,  but  of  stiff,  black  felt — and  that  his 
necktie,  when  it  could  be  seen,  which  wasn't  often 
on  account  of  his  whiskers,  was  a  particularly  flat, 
black  Ascot.  The  tie  was,  however,  ornamented  with 
a  jet-and-gold  scarf  pin  big  enough  to  serve  a  lady 
for  a  brooch. 

"Sit  down,"  begged  Solly,  getting  to  his  feet. 

But  Eddie,  the  bar-boy,  had  his  eye  on  the  new 
arrival.  In  Eddie's  face  also  there  was  a  look  of 
happy  surprise.  At  the  slightest  gesture  from  the 
old  gentleman,  indicating  that  he  was  willing  to  join 
the  party,  Eddie  had  stepped  forward  swiftly  with  a 
chair,  held  this  in  place  while  the  patriarch  seated 
himself. 

Eddie  breathed  his  willingness  to  be  of  further  use: 

"What  kin  I  bring  yuh,  bishop?" 

The  bishop  reflected,  with  an  alert  appliance  of 
thought. 

"Bring  me" — he  paused,  then  pronounced  the  rest 
of  it  like  a  scientist  stating  a  complex  theorem — "a 
cocktail  containing  two  parts  Bacardi  rum.  Hold  on, 
now!  You  tell  him  who  it's  for,  and  tell  him  that  I 
don't  want  lemon  but  lime,  and  that  he's  to  put  the 
lime  and  the  sugar  in  before  the  rum.  Hold  on !" 

He  reflected,  benevolently.  He  thrust  a  finger  and 
thumb  into  the  pocket  of  his  well-filled  vest.  He 
thoughtfully  extracted  a  fifty-cent  piece. 

"Well,  go  on,"  he  said.     "I'll  see  how  you  get  me 


64  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

that  order  filled  before — no,  here !  You  give  me  forty 
cents.  Quick !" 

He  didn't  have  to  speak  twice.  He  picked  up  the 
four  wet  dimes  Eddie  had  left  in  exchange  for  the  larger 
coin  which  Eddie  had  seized  in  his  rush  for  the  bar. 
Then  the  bishop  looked  around  at  his  table  companions. 
He  smiled.  He  blandly  winked. 

"I  bet,"  he  said,  complacently,  "that's  the  first  phony 
coin  Eddie's  took  in  for  quite  a  spell.  Solly,  my  child, 
I  haven't  seen  you  since  you  was  a  little  shaver  selling 
lemonade  at  the  Muzee."  He  cast  an  indulgent  glance 
toward  Phil  and  Myrtle.  But  it  was  to  Chick  that 
he  addressed  himself  with  kindly  interest:  "Was  you 
thinking  of  leaving  New  York?" 

Chick  was  momentarily  embarrassed,  but  Solly  an 
swered  for  him. 

"You  ought  to  'a'  been  here,  grandpa.  The  boy 
here's  a  little  sour  on  the  game — hands  us  a  line  of 
dope  about  how  everybody  gets  it  in  the  neck  if  they 
stick  around  too  long.  Say,  it  was  in  my  mind  to 
ask  him  how  about  you.  Nobody  ever  got  nothing  on 
you;  did  they,  grandpa?  You  ain't  got  any  kick  at 
how  the  world's  been  treatin'  you ;  have  you,  grandpa  ?" 

The  bishop  was  placid,  but  before  he  could  formulate 
his  answer  Phil  contributed  to  the  conversation. 

"The  old  reform-bug's  bit  him." 

Myrtle  turned  on  him. 

"You  should  worry,"  she  flared. 

"Yeh,"  Solly  mocked,  as  the  humor  of  the  situation 
got  the  better  of  him ;  "says  he  ain't  never  had  a  chance 
because  he  wasn't  raised  up  a  rube.  He  ought  to  know 


"SKY-BLUE"  65 

somethin'  about  rubes  like  you  do ;  oughtn't  he,  grand 
pa?" 

"Was  you  aiming  to  go  out  in  the  country,  son?" 

"Yes." 

Chick  answered  softly,  still  embarrassed  somewhat. 
It  was  all  right  for  Solly  to  play  the  familiar  with 
this  old  man,  but  there  was  something  about  him,  as 
there  is  apt  to  be  about  any  celebrity  that  one  sees 
for  the  first  time,  to  cause  the  mind  to  recoil  for  a  better 
look.  "Sky-Blue!"  "The  Bishop!"  There  were  a 
dozen  other  war  names  that  belonged  to  this  patriarch. 
His  fame  extended  from  coast  to  coast.  This,  Chick 
knew,  but  only  in  a  general  way.  Now,  here  was  the 
great  man  himself — looking  at  him,  taking  a  sympa 
thetic  interest  in  his  plans. 

Solly  also  diverted  his  interest  to  Chick. 

"Say,"  he  whispered  from  the  side  of  his  mouth, 
"they  ain't  a  bull  in  the  world  that'd  dream  o'  hangin' 
anything  on  grandpa !" 

Before  the  interesting  colloquy  could  develop  further, 
Eddie  came  back  with  the  bishop's  beverage  on  a 
sloppy  tray.  In  Eddie's  face  was  a  look  of  consterna 
tion  carefully  held  in  check.  Eddie  set  the  drink  on  the 
table  and  tentatively  drew  out  the  half-dollar  the  elder 
had  given  him.  But  Eddie's  opportunity  to  put  in  a 
claim  was  deferred. 

The  bishop  lifted  the  glass.  He  smelled  it.  He  took 
a  copious  swallow.  He  appeared  to  masticate  the 
liquid  before  it  got  down.  He  turned  to  Eddie  with  a 
glint  of  rage  so  subdued  and  deadly  and  cold  that  even 
Eddie  winced. 


66  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Git  me  the  bottle !"  the  bishop  commanded. 

Eddie  disappeared.  He  was  almost  instantly  back, 
bringing  the  bottle  with  him.  Sky-Blue  took  this  and 
studied  it  patiently. 

"It's  Bacardi,"  he  pronounced  with  mild  surprise. 

He  pulled  the  cork.  He  decanted  enough  of  the 
liquor  into  his  glass  to  make  up  for  the  swallow  lie 
had  taken.  He  turned  to  Eddie. 

"Leave  it  here,"  he  said.     "I'll  settle  with  you  later." 

Eddie  withdrew,  but  only  as  far  as  the  next  table, 
which  happened  to  be  empty.  There  he  paused  long 
enough  to  bounce  his  coin  a  couple  of  times  on  the 
table-top. 

The  bishop  refreshed  himself  with  another  swallow. 
He  was  mellow.  He  was  suave.  He  slowly  wagged 
his  head.  He  watched,  with  a  glint  of  kindly  but 
detached  interest,  while  Eddie,  responsive  to  an  inspira 
tion,  slipped  the  bad  coin  into  the  return  change  of 
a  tipsy  customer  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  Then, 
once  again  he  addressed  the  group: 

"The  country's  good.  I've  always  found  it  pleas 
ant."  He  went  reminiscent.  "My  first  wife  was  a 
country  girl — wooed  her  and  wen  her  out  in  Missouri. " 

"Was  she "  Solly  began.  He  hesitated,  possibly 

for  fear  of  committing  an  indelicacy. 

But  Sky-Blue,  abstracted,  nodded  his  head. 

"Yes,  that  was  her  who  later  posed  as  the  Princess 
Clementine  or  something  up  in  Duluth." 

"Whatever  became  of  her?" 

"I  don't  know,"  the  bishop  drawled. 

"Ain't  she " 


"SKY-BLUE"  67 

"No;  she  divorced  me,  or  I  divorced  her — I  don't 
remember  which.  The  lawyers  could  tell  you.  There's 
a  bunch  of  rascals  for  you.  I  never  could  get  the 
straight  of  it.  But,  speaking  about  the  country.  I 
was  addressing  a  grange  out  in  North  Dakota  not 
more  than  two  weeks  ago.  And — blooie,  but  it  was 
cold!"  He  drained  his  glass  and,  absent-mindedly, 
filled  it  up  again,  this  time  with  the  Bacardi  straight. 
"And  I  spoke  of  the  blessings  of  the  country.  One 
of  the  most  successful  sermons  I've  got !" 

"One  of  the  what?"  gasped  Solly. 

The  bishop  eyed  him  musingly. 

"Solly,  my  child,"  he  said,  "you  always  was  a 
materialist." 

Myrtle  dared  speak.  "I  was  tellin'  him  the  same 
thing.  I'm  leaving  for  the  country  myself." 

"A  good  idea,"  Sky-Blue  averred,  taking  her  in  with 
his  bright  and  kindly  eyes.  "Oh,  the  great  country ! 
It's  so  rich  in  sympathy !  Just  let  a  bank  president 
out  there,  or  somebody,  know  that  you  are  a  young 
widder,  genteel,  and  in  reduced  circumstances,  and  not 
knowing  which  way  to  turn  next !  Oh,  this  great  and 
generous  land !"  He  turned  once  more  to  Chick.  "But 
you  go  alone,  my  son,"  he  said  gently.  "What  line 
of  reform  was  you  aiming  to  manipulate?" 


CHAPTER  X 

SNIFFING    THE    ASPHODEL 

POSSIBLY  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Chick  was  let 
ting  his  embarrassment  get  the  better  of  him.  He  was 
on  strange  ground.  That  was  the  trouble.  But  his 
courage  came  to  his  rescue.  He  dared  tell  the  truth 
even  to  Sky-Blue. 

"It  ain't  no  line,"  he  said.  "I'm  goin'  straight. 
That's  all.  I  got  a  hunch  that  I  can  do  it,  too,  but 
only  out  in  the  country." 

Neither  Chick  nor  the  bishop  paid  any  attention  to 
Solly's  snort  of  laughter  nor  Phil's  reptilian  smile. 
Chick  was  looking  at  the  bishop,  and  the  bishop  was 
looking  at  his  glass.  He  meditatively  filled  this  from 
the  bottle  again.  He  was  about  to  raise  the  glass  when 
he  halted  his  movement  with  a  look  of  consternation. 

"Where  are  my  manners?"  he  exclaimed,  apologet 
ically. 

He  summoned  Eddie  with  a  finger. 

"Why  don't  you  take  the  orders  of  this  lady  and 
these  gentlemen?"  he  demanded  reprovingly.  "Bring 
them — bring  them — let's  see — a  bottle  of  your  best 
Catawba  wine."  He  dismissed  Eddie  and  momentarily 
gave  his  attention  to  Myrtle.  "I'm  going  to  ask  them 
to  make  you  a  package  of  an  extra  bottle  of  that  for 

68 


SNIFFING  THE  ASPHODEL  69 

you  to  take  away  with  you,  and  I  want  you  to  listen 
to  what  I  say.  You  take  your  bottle  of  Catawba  wine 
and  open  it  and  put  in  about  a  dozen  tenpenny  nails — 
wrought  nails — don't  let  them  give  you  cut  nails — 
wrought  nails! — and  then  cork  your  bottle  and  let  it 
stand  for  about  a  fortnight — a  month  would  be  better. 
Got  that?  Catawba  wine  and  then  your  wrought  nails !" 

"Yes,"  said  Myrtle  at  a  loss. 

"Then,  what's  she  to  do  with  it,  grandpa?'*  Solly 
inquired.  "Poison  the  banker?" 

The  bishop  ignored  him. 

"A  dear  old  soul  out  in  Juniata,  Pennsylvania,  gave 
me  that  prescription,"  he  said.  "She  had  a  daughter 
that  looked  something  like  you,  only  she  wasn't  so 
good  looking,  and  I  asked  her,  says  I:  'How  comes  it 
that  Angelica,'  says  I,  'who  used  to  be  so  slim  and 
white  now  looks  like  one  of  those  corn-fed  girls,'  says 
I,  'like  they  raise  'em  where  I  come  from,*  I  says,  'out 
Cincinnati  way  ?' " 

"Do  you  come  from  Cincinnati?"  asked  Myrtle. 

"Sometimes  I  do,  and  sometimes  I  don't,"  said  the 
bishop.  "It  all  depends.  Well,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
the  dear  old  soul,  she  says,  says  she :  'I'm  giving  An 
gelica  a  tonic,'  and  she  tells  me  about  that.  So  you 
needn't  be  afraid  of  it  doing  you  any  harm,  my  child. 
I've  given  the  prescription  to  five  thousand  people  if 
I've  given  it  to  one;  and  all  I  ever  got  out  of  it  was 
a  case  of  whisky  from  a  liquor-house;  but  it  did  them 
all  good.  Wine  and  iron!  Nature's  gift  to  suffering 
man!" 


70  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"You  must  do  a  lot  of  good,"  said  Myrtle,  to  show 
her  gratitude. 

The  bishop  emptied  his  glass.  He  made  an  atro 
cious  face,  as  the  stuff  went  down,  but  he  filled  his 
glass  again. 

"Solly,"  he  said,  "it's  nothing  to  me,  but  suppose 
you  propose  the  smokes.  You're  looking  fairly  pros 
perous." 

"Gotcha,"  said  Solly,  and  he  playfully  displayed  a 
small  roll  of  bills.  "Here,  Eddie,  take  their  orders 
for  the  smokes." 

The  bishop  was  in  a  reverie  as  he  saw  Solly's  money. 

"You  was  sayin' "  Solly  suggested  when  Eddie 

had  gone. 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  bishop.  But  any  one  could  have 
seen  that  it  was  still  several  seconds  before  he  fully  re 
covered  his  line  of  thought.  "As  I  was  saying,  that's 
the  advice  I'd  give  to  any  young  man.  Why  stay 
around  where  all  the  sinners  flee  to,  when  you  can  go  to 
a  sweeter,  purer  clime,  where  the  lambs  ain't  all  grew 
horns  and  whiskers  yet  nor  learned  how  to  eat  tin 
cans?" 

"There's  as  many  suckers  here  in  New  York,  grand 
pa,  as  there  are  billy-goats,"  laughed  Sol;  "or  nanny- 
goats  either." 

"Tell  it  to  Sweeny,"  countered  the  bishop  promptly. 

He  drained  his  glass,  gathering  philosophical  force. 

"You'll  make  a  success  of  this  reform  business,  my 
son,"  he  said,  smiling  at  Chick.  "You  believe  in  good 
ness.  That's  the  secret  of  success."  He  laughed  in 
his  beard.  "Oh,  this  sweet,  sweet  appeal  to  benign  flap- 


SNIFFING  THE  ASPHODEL  71 

doodle  and  mellifluous  balderdash!  But  you  must  be 
sincere.  You  must  believe  it  yourself.  Be  good  and 
you'll  be  happy.  Oh,  how  I  suffered  before  I  learned 
the  truth.  Let  us  spread  the  truth  to  others  not  so 
fortunate  as  us.  Let  us  carry  the  sweetness  of  this 
broad  land  to  the  besotted  unfortunates  of  the  wicked 
Babylon,  to  the  end  that  they  also,  brothers  and  sisters, 
may  be  blessed  like  us  and  sniff  the  asphodel!" 

"He's  gettin'  a  little  stewed,"  breathed  Solly. 

To  Chick  it  seemed  that  there  was  a  gleam  of  alert 
intelligence  in  Sky-Blue's  eye,  notwithstanding  the 
ground  for  Solly's  judgment.  And  the  bishop  himself 
followed  with  the  wise  suggestion  that  they  all  be  go 
ing  their  several  ways.  Myrtle  had  her  package  of 
wine.  There  was  nothing  more  especially  pressing 
either  to  do  or  to  talk  about. 

"Solly,  my  child,"  said  the  bishop,  with  a  trembling 
note  in  his  voice  that  hadn't  been  there  before,  "I'm  get 
ting  too  old  to  trust  myself,  but  I  can  trust  you.  Eddie, 
here,  is  waiting  to  get  back  at  me  on  account  of  that 
little  joke  I  played  on  him.  We'll  fool  him  again. 
You  settle  and  let  me  know  how  much  it  is.  You 
wouldn't  lie  to  me  about  it.  Would  you,  Solly?" 

"What  do  you  think?" 

They  went  out  on  to  the  sidewalk,  leaving  Sollj  to 
follow. 

The  rain  had  stopped,  but  the  night  had  continued  to 
be  damp  and  unseasonably  cool.  Crowded  up  into  a 
dismal  but  more  or  less  sheltered  corner  of  the  bar 
room  entrance  they  saw  a  little  slum  girl  with  an 


72  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

armful  of  untidy  flowers  which  she  had  evidently  been 
trying  to  sell.  It  was  the  bishop  who  saw  her  first. 

'Well,  well,  well!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  have  we 
here?" 

The  little  girl  looked  up  at  him.  She  had  a  smile  in 
her  hollow  eyes.  She  tried  to  repeat  the  formula  of 
her  salesmanship.  Her  lips  moved,  but  her  voice  was 
inaudible. 

The  bishop  thrust  his  fingers  into  various  pockets. 
He  turned  to  Phil. 

"She  says  her  flowers  are  worth  two  dollars," 
he  announced,  with  cheerful  sympathy,  all  trace  of 
weakness  now  having  disappeared.  "Slip  the  little  lady 
two  dollars — until  I  settle  with  Sol." 

Phil  was  obedient  to  the  higher  law. 

"There's  your  two  dollars,"  said  the  bishop  play 
fully  to  the  child.  "Now  you're  free  to  go  home. 
Where'd  you  say  it  was?"  He  bowed  his  patriarchal 
head  until  his  ear  was  on  a  level  with  the  little  girl's 
lips.  "Ah,  Cherry  Street !  I  shall  have  the  honor  of 
sending  you  there  in  a  cab." 

And  Chick  remembered  vaguely  some  tradition  as 
to  why  this  old  man  had  been  called  Sky-Blue.  It  was 
because  he  was  always  doing  things  like  this. 

He  saw  the  bishop  summon  the  night-hawk  cabby, 
put  the  little  maid  into  the  vehicle — no,  he  wouldn't  take 
her  flowers ;  they  had  been  rained  on  enough  to  freshen 
them  up,  and  the  weather  was  cool,  so  that  she  could 
sell  them  all  to-morrow — and  saw  him  give  the  cabman 
a  bill  with  a  request  that  the  cabman  keep  the  change. 

The  bishop  was  in  a  softer  mood  than  erer  when 


SNIFFING  THE  ASPHODEL  73 

he  returned  from  the  little  adventure.  He  was  smiling, 
but  his  eye  was  a  little  moist.  He  ignored  Phil  with 
a  slight  hint  of  asperity.  He  seemed  to  be  drawn 
to  Chick. 

"See  how  little  it  costs  to  be  kind — to  spread  a  little 
sweetness  on  our  pathway  through  the  world,  as  the 
poet  says." 

"It  looks  to  me  like  it  sets  you  back  quite  a  bit," 
said  Chick. 

Sky-Blue  dropped  his  voice  to  a  confidential  tone. 

"I'm  going  to  let  Phil  keep  that  two  dollars  to  his 
credit,"  he  said ;  "and  the  child  will  get  home  in  safety 
— in  safety  and  happiness — poor  little  sparrow,  even 
if  that  was  a  punk  dollar  bill  I  handed  over  to  the  jehu." 

Solly  came  out  and  joined  his  friends. 

"It  was  eight  fifty,  grandpa,"  he  announced. 

"What  was?"  the  bishop  inquired  with  polite  in 
terest. 

"The  drinks ;  and  I  had  to  let  out  a  roar  to  keep  it 
that  low." 

"Well,  you  were  always  good  at  that,  Solly,  when  it 
came  to  paying  for  anything.  But  I  don't  quite  under 
stand.  I'm  getting  a  little  old.  What's  it  all  about? 
You'll  have  to  make  yourself  clear." 

"You  owes  me  eight  fifty,"  said  Solly.  "Is  that 
clear?" 

"Solly,  my  child,"  said  Sky-Blue,  with  sincere  re 
gret,  "I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  you've 
been  a  little  fresh  all  evening,  calling  me  'grandpa* 
and  everything.  Now,  let  us  have  an  end  of  this  non- 


74  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

He  turned  to  Chick. 

"And  that's  the  way  of  the  world,"  he  said,  linking 
his  arm  into  that  of  the  younger  man.  "There  is  a 
scheme  in  things.  Come  on,  Solly,  and  you,  Phil.  I'm 
taking  you  all  to  supper.  Don't  be  afraid.  I  have 
a  friend  who  will  pay  for  it,  and  maybe  show  you 
how  to  get  a  little  stake.  I  knew  you'd  smile  at  that. 
Good  money !  Bad  money !  We  all  get  our  share  of 
each,  and  what  we  get  we  pass  along.  You're  right. 
Go  where  the  good  money  is — 'way  back!" 

"Way  back!     'Way  back!" 

For  a  long  time  after  he  was  alone  that  night. 
Chick's  mind  was  in  confusion,  a  jumble  of  the  words 
and  the  phrases  he  had  heard  this  day — from  the  lieu 
tenant  of  police,  from  the  old  man  who  had  been  his 
victim  and  his  master,  from  his  friends,  from  Sky- 
Blue;  a  jumble  of  fragmentary  pictures  also — of  the 
back  room  of  the  Commodore,  of  a  hill  white  with 
bloom,  of  Solly's  fat  face,  mocking  but  not  unkind; 
Phil's  face,  friendly  but  cruel;  Myrtle's  face,  oddly 
transfigured,  as  he  had  seen  her  last  at  the  Pennsyl 
vania  Station  when  he  bade  her  good-by;  the  face  of 
Ezra  Wood ;  the  bishop's ! 

But  through  all  this  double  confusion,  like  the  sound 
of  a  bell  through  the  noises  of  a  street  came  the  echo : 

"  'Way  lack!     'Way  back!" 

He  didn't  know  where  he  was  going.  It  didn't  mat 
ter  very  much.  The  whole  of  America  lay  to  the  north 
and  west  and  south  of  him.  He  had  given  Myrtle  about 
all  the  money  that  he  had,  and  he  had  a  vague  idea 


SNIFFING  THE  ASPHODEL  75 

that  this  was  going  to  bring  him  luck.  The  pawn 
shops  would  open  at  7  A.M. — an  hour  fixed  by  the 
police.  Then  he  would  pawn  all  he  had.  It  wouldn't 
yield  him  much,  but  it  would  be  sufficient  to  carry  him 
far  from  New  York,  far  from  the  only  life  he  had  ever 
known,  far  from  all  the  people  he  had  ever  known. 

There,  for  a  time,  he  regretted  it  a  little  that  he 
hadn't  talked  this  thing  over  with  old  Ezra  Wood.  Or, 
suppose  that  he  himself  went  to  Rosebloom. 

No,  everything  that  had  thus  far  entered  into  his 
life  he  would  put  behind  him.  New  York  had  mauled 
him,  shaken  him  down,  begun  to  eat  him  alive.  He  could 
see  it  now. 

He  would  begin  all  over  again — like  an  innocent 
babe  among  other  innocents — 'way  back! 


CHAPTER  XI 


SPRING 


THE  whole  country  was  busy  about  something.  It 
was  an  activity  which  paralleled  and  confirmed  an 
activity  within  himself.  The  idea  kept  coming  back 
to  him  wherever  he  went,  and  the  further  he  went  the 
stronger  the  idea  grew. 

He  went  to  the  westward,  slowly,  by  easy  stages, 
without  any  particular  design.  The  big  towns  made 
no  appeal  to  him  whatsoever.  It  was  the  open  country 
and  the  villages  that  ensnared  his  interest,  set  up  a 
vibration  in  his  own  heart  that  was  in  perfect  accord 
with  the  vast  but  muted  tremolo  of  the  cosmic  orchestra. 
The  opening  note  of  a  new  composition — a  new  sym 
phonic  poem. 

Not  all  of  a  man's  feelings  are  reduced  to  speech. 
And  for  much  of  the  time  Chick's  moods  were  wordless. 
But  all  this  was  what  he  felt. 

There  was  an  underlying  strain  of  philosophy  and 
poetry  in  his  nature  which  he  had  always  known  existed 
there.  The  wizard  touch  of  old  Ezra  Wood  had 
identified  it  for  him.  That  was  all.  What  Chick  saw 
with  his  eyes  translated  itself  largely  in  the  words  that 
the  old  man  had  used  in  speaking  of  the  country.  There 

76 


SPRING  77 

was  that  wider  sense,  however,  that  had  nothing  to  do 
with  merely  physical  sensation. 

"God's  own  country!" 

The  familiar  phrase  of  a  sometimes  cheap  and  tawdry 
patriotism  took  on  a  wider  meaning1  and  expressed 
somewhat  this  feeling  of  harmony.  And  he  drew  on 
other  sources  of  expression — songs  and  sentiments  that 
had  been  planted  in  his  heart  'way  back  in  school-days. 
He  was  not  without  education.  No  child  of  the  New 
York  streets  is. 

My   native   country,  thee, 
Land  of  the  noble  free. 

It  was  as  if  the  seeds  of  a  new  growth  had  been 
planted  there — in  some  seer  October,  or  in  the  dark 
of  some  winter  now  past — and  that  these  were  now 
springing  up,  covering  everything  with  green,  delivering 
a  promise  of  blossom  and  future  harvest. 

Chance,  as  much  as  anything,  carried  him  a  little  to 
the  south  as  well  as  west — right  toward  the  heart  of  the 
country;  or,  if  not  its  heart,  at  least  its  lungs — a 
corpuscle  going  back  in  the  veins  of  the  body  politic  to 
be  revivified,  although  he  didn't  think  of  it  that  way. 
Only  that  feeling  that  he  was  a  part  of  some  great 
scheme  persisted  and  made  itself  clear. 

His  course  led  him  down  through  the  Delaware  Water 
Gap,  which  is  a  region  of  wooded  hills,  carpeted  valleys, 
glimmering  rivers  and  misty  cascades.  He  had  told  the 
truth  when  he  said  that  he  had  never  been  out  of 
New  York.  Even  New  York  he  had  never  seen  as 
some  people  see  it.  New  York  was  that  screaming 


78  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

monster  where  it  was  mostly  night,  where  the  skj  was 
frontiered  by  high  roofs  and  smoke-stacks,  or  shut  out 
altogether  by  the  "L." 

There  were  times  when  Chick  was  telling  himself  that 
he  had  never  seen  the  sky  before — not  since  some  dimly 
remembered  past.  You  can't  see  the  sky  when  your 
business  keeps  your  eyes  on  the  things  of  the  street. 
Nor  had  he  ever  seen  the  earth  before.  The  sidewalks, 
the  granite  pavements,  the  asphalt,  the  slippery  mosaics 
and  soiled  carpets  that  his  feet  had  hitherto  trod — these 
were  not  the  earth. 

He  had  been  gone  from  New  York  for  almost  a 
month.  This  particular  night  he  had  slept  in  the 
open.  He  hadn't  slept  very  much,  but  this  was  not  due 
to  any  lack  of  comfort.  Discomfort  could  never  keep 
him  awake.  He  had  slept  in  all  sorts  of  places,  and 
this  place  was  better  than  any  of  them — under  the  low 
boughs  of  a  purple  beech,  where  the  grass  none  the  less 
grew  fine  and  long,  springy  and  thick,  on  the  rim  of 
a  wide  valley  that  stretched  away  into  hazy  nothing 
ness,  as  if  this  were  the  end  of  the  world. 

He  had  found  this  place  at  sunset,  when  he  was 
traveling  on  foot,  decided,  this  time,  to  test  the  new 
world  of  his  discovery  to  the  utmost.  He  had  passed 
many  a  night  in  New  York  City  "out  in  the  open" — 
"flying  the  banner,"  as  they  called  it,  back  there;  and 
what  would  it  be  like  to  "fly  the  banner"  here  in  the 
country?  Now  he  had  tried  it,  and  he  felt,  as  he  had 
never  felt  before,  that  he  finally  belonged  to  the  open 
places.  He  had  been  initiated.  No  longer  was  the 


SPRING  79 

country  holding  out  on  him.  He  knew  the  days.  He 
knew  the  nights. 

At  sunset,  though,  the  whole  valley  had  been  so 
flooded  with  red  and  golden  light,  especially  straight 
ahead  of  him,  that  many  of  the  details  of  it  had  es 
caped  him.  After  that,  it  was  the  purpling  twilight, 
getting  so  thick  that  it  floated  the  eyes  of  his  head  and 
the  eyes  of  his  mind  right  up  to  where  the  stars  were 
coming  out. 

It  was  not  until  the  dawn  that  he  saw  that  there  was 
a  town  in  the  valley.  It  looked  almost  like  his  mental 
picture  of  Rosebloom,  the  place  old  Ezra  Wood  came 
from.  He  would  have  to  see  this  town. 

He  took  his  time  about  his  toilet. 

It  may  have  been  the  result  of  his  night  in  the  open 
air,  but  there  was  a  picnic-feeling  in  his  heart — a  feel 
ing  that  engulfed  him  and  permeated  all  things  that 
this  was  a  holiday.  There  was  a  hint  of  happy  ad 
venture  about  it,  as  well.  The  birds  were  singing 
about  him  as  he  washed  himself  in  the  rock  wash-bowl 
of  a  tiny  brook.  The  birds  were  celebrating  some 
thing  which  was  about  to  come  to  pass.  He  changed 
his  linen.  He  scrupulously  brushed  his  clothes.  He 
polished  his  shoes  with  strands  of  grass. 

"Be  you  a  stranger  in  these  parts?" 

He  turned  and  saw  an  old,  old  man  at  the  top  of  a 
tussocky  slope.  And,  for  all  any  one  could  have 
judged  from  the  appearance  of  him,  the  old  man  had 
been  there  all  the  time,  just  like  an  old  stump,  or  one 
of  those  shy,  wild  creatures  which  know  how  to  emerge 


80  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

from  a  hiding-place  and  then  rest  silent  and  motionless 
for  hours. 

"I  sure  be,"  the  New  Yorker  replied.  "And  where 
do  you  come  from  ?" 

"Well  now,"  said  the  ancient,  "since  you've  asked 
me,  I  ain't  a  goin'  to  tell  you  no  lie.  I  just  come  from 
the  medder  back  there  that  Uncle  Newt  Parker  stoled 
from  Henry  Smith  in  1882.  Hold  on,  now.  I  don't 
want  to  tell  no  lie.  It  wa'n't  in  1882,  neither.  It  was 
in  1883.  Yes,  sir.  It  were  in  the  fall  of  the  year, 
1883." 

All  the  time  that  the  ancient  was  saying  this,  he 
kept  his  eyes  gimleting  the  distance,  as  an  aid  to  ab 
struse  thought. 

"Live  there?" 

The  native  swung  his  small  eyes  on  Chick  with  a 
start. 

"Where — the  medder?" 

"Yeh." 

The  ancient  once  more  let  his  sight  go  into  the  far 
places. 

"Now,  if  you'd  asked  me  in  the  first  place  where  I 
lived  and  not  where  I  come  from,  I'd  'a'  told  you  right 
out.  A  fair  answer  fer  a  fair  question.  That's  my 
motto.  That's  what  I  was  tellin'  one  of  these  here  In 
dian  doctors  who  went  through  here  last  fall  and 
wanted  to  know  if  I  ever  suffered  from  chilblains.  A 
fair  answer  fer  a  fair  question.  Stranger,  do  you  see 
that  town  over  there?" 

"Yes.     Is  that  where  you  live?" 


SPRING  81 

"Hold  your  horses.  Hold  your  horses.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  lie  to  you.  I  lived  there  once." 

"What's  the  name  of  it?" 

"Well,  if  they  ain't  changed  it  since  I  been  there, 
the  name  of  that  town  over  there,  since  you  been  ask 
ing  me,  stranger,  is  St.  Clair." 


CHAPTER  XII 

"FLOWERY  HARBOR" 

RIGHT  where  St.  Clair  and  the  open  country  merged, 
there  was  a  large  old  frame  house  in  a  large  old  gar 
den.  Both  showed  signs  of  decay.  There  were  gaps 
in  the  white  paling  fence.  The  fruit  and  decorative 
trees  had  all  grown  into  black  and  scrawny  old  age. 
There  was  a  dry  fountain — also  white  originally — 
wherein  a  badly  scarred  infant  throttled  a  swan.  As 
for  the  house,  it  could  have  known  neither  paint  nor 
carpentry  for  twenty  years  at  least. 

Yet  the  whole  place  still  radiated  a  certain  mellow 
dignity,  even  a  certain  homely  beauty — honeysuckle 
running  over  the  fence;  a  hundred  varieties  of  flower 
ing  weeds  and  bushes  drifting  perfume  and  color  else 
where;  wrens,  robins,  and  martins  contributing  their 
note  of  cheerfulness  and  life. 

And  that  well-known  truth  that  any  man's  home  is  in 
the  nature  of  a  portrait  of  himself  was  amply  exempli 
fied  in  the  present  instance,  when  Colonel  Evan  Williams 
appeared  through  the  front  door  of  the  mansion. 

He  always  called  it  a  mansion. 

For  the  colonel — call  him  that ;  every  one  else  did — 
likewise  suggested  a  sort  of  decorative  decay.  And  he 
was  garbed  in  raiment  singularly  suggestive,  to  any 

82 


"FLOWERY  HARBOR"  83 

one  with  a  grain  of  imagination,  of  the  same  state  of 
affair*.  He  and  his  clothes  were  equally  well  suited 
to  each  other.  There  was  nothing  sordid  about  them — 
nothing  that  wasn't  dignified,  yet  homelike  and 
friendlj. 

The  colonel  had  a  red  face  and  a  white  mustache — 
one  of  those  antebellum  mustaches,  very  heavy,  that 
descend  far  below  the  chin.  He  had  a  droopy  blue 
eye  that  was  at  once  belligerent  and  jovial.  His  whole 
face  was  jovial,  albeit  dignified — especially  his  nose, 
which  was  inclined  to  be  pendulous  and  was  certainly 
more  highly  colored  than  the  rest  of  his  countenance. 
He  must  have  been  a  man  of  splendid  presence  in  his 
day.  In  fact,  there  was  still  ample  evidence  of  this, 
but  now  he  was  inclined  to  sag  a  little,  was  a  trifle 
heayy  on  his  feet — just  like  this  old  house  of  his. 

He  stood  there  at  the  top  of  the  broad  stoop  like  an 
honored  heirloom  from  another  generation.  He  wore 
a  black  slouch  hat.  He  carried  a  gnarled,  black 
cane. 

He  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  something,  or  to  have 
fallen  into  a  reverie — you  couldn't  have  told  which, 
from  his  drooping,  thoughtful  immobility.  Then,  with 
a  surprising  hint  of  alertness,  he  cocked  his  head  and 
listened. 

From  somewhere  in  the  back  of  the  house  there 
sounded  forth  a  girl's  clear,  strong  soprano : 

"He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  sound  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment  seat; 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  Him!     Be  jubilant,  my  feet! 
Our  God  is  marching  on !" 


84  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Dear  child!  Sweet  child!"  the  colonel  murmured. 
"If  I  could  only  spare  you  this!" 

But  there  was  an  unmistakable  craftiness  about  his 
movements,  and  of  judgment  matured  through  bitter  re 
flection,  in  what  followed.  He  was  sentimental,  but 
no  sentimentality  could  master  him. 

From  the  tail  pocket  of  his  frayed  Prince  Albert 
he  brought  a  rectangle  of  pasteboard.  He  had  thought 
of  everything.  It  wasn't  for  nothing  that  he  had 
been  reckoned  one  of  the  leading  young  lawyers  of 
the  South.  There  was  even  a  loop  of  string  through 
a  hole  in  the  pasteboard  convenient  for  its  suspension 
on  the  old  bell-pull.  He  hung  the  card  in  place. 

He  did  this  to  the  rousing  chorus: 

"Glory!    Glory!    Hallelujah!" 

Still  standing  there,  he  drew  a  handkerchief,  also 
from  a  tail  pocket — there  were  two  of  these  pock 
ets  and  each  appeared  to  be  big  enough  to  bin  a 
sack  of  meal.  He  wiped  his  eyes.  He  blew  his  nose. 
He  returned  the  handkerchief  to  its  place  and  brought 
out,  in  turn,  something  that  might  have  been  a 
flask. 

"Medicine,  sir ! — by  my  physician's  order ! — the  only 
prescription  you  could  induce  a  physician  himself  to 
take!" 

He  kept  his  back  turned  while  he  tilted  his  head. 
He  cleared  his  throat.  He  returned  the  thing  that 
might  have  been  a  flask  to  the  storage  place  at  the 


"FLOWERY  HARBOR"  85 

rear.     He  straightened  up.     He  turned  and  marched 
with  becoming  dignity  down  the  decrepit  steps. 

And  all  who  would  might  read  that  here  in  the  man 
sion  there  was  a 

ROOM   TO  LET. 

It  was  the  right  and  beautiful  thing.  You  could  tell 
it  bj  the  colonel's  walk.  Dignified,  thoughtful,  his 
coat-tails  swinging  rhythmically,  he  passed  on  down  the 
garden  walk  to  the  unhinged  front  gate.  He  passed 
on  up  the  street. 

It  wasn't  much  of  a  street — just  a  sort  of  country 
lane,  formalized  to  some  extent  by  other  fences  far 
ther  on  and  occasional  bits  of  sidewalk.  But  such 
houses  as  there  may  have  been  were  mostly  hidden  by 
trees  and  shrubbery. 

A  bluebird  sang.  There  was  a  flash  of  red  where 
a  cardinal  passed.  The  whole  country  roundabout, 
and,  for  that  matter,  the  town  itself  except  for  two 
or  three  church  steeples,  was  smothered  in  bloom  of 
sorts — drifts  of  white  and  pink,  where  the  apples  or  the 
dogwoods,  the  peaches  or  the  Judas-trees,  were  calling 
to  the  bees.  The  bees  and  the  birds — and  that  as  yet 
invisible  girl — furnished  about  all  the  sound  there  was 
— a  world,  therefore,  set  to  music. 

In  spite  of  all  this  predicated  solitude,  the  colonel's 
sortie  and  his  subsequent  movements  had,  none  the  less, 
been  duly  noticed — duly  and  severely  noticed. 

From  the  hedge  of  Osage  orange,  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  a  pair  of  eyes  had  studied  him  with  all 


86  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

the  alert  intelligence  of  a  squirrel's.  And  these  were 
the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Meckley,  who  lived  over  there — in  a 
little  cottage  as  carefully  concealed  and,  you  might  say, 
as  arboreal,  as  any  squirrel's  house.  A  professional 
widow,  Mrs.  Meckley — perpetually  lonely,  according 
to  what  she  herself  always  said,  yet  given  to  close 
observation,  and  numerous  calls. 

"Room  to  let!"  she  cried  to  herself  when  she  made 
out  the  colonel's  sign.  "The  old  reprobate!  The  old 
miser  I" 

She  would  have  departed  then  to  spread  the  tidings, 
only,  with  a  twinge  of  exquisite  excitement,  she  saw 
that  her  news  budget  was  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming 
duly  amplified. 

"He's  goin'  in!" 

This  second  comment  was  inspired  by  the  sight  of 
a  stranger — an  event  in  itself  sufficient  to  enrich  any 
day.  The  stranger  had  come  into  the  street  from  the 
direction  of  the  open  country.  And  yet  there  was  a 
certain  citified  air  about  him — as  there  usually  was 
about  strangers,  after  they  had  been  measured  and 
weighed  by  local  standards. 

The  stranger  carried  a  dress-suit  case.  His  clothes 
were  rather  badly  worn  and  in  need  of  pressing;  still 
there  was  an  impression  of  nattiness  about  them — from 
his  velours  hat,  with  the  brim  turned  down  on  one  side, 
right  on  to  his  light-tan,  cloth-topped  shoes. 

Mrs.  Meckley  saw  him  pause  at  the  sagging  gate, 
saw  him  look  after  the  retreating  form  of  the  colonel 
as  if  half  persuaded  to  run  after  him,  then  drop  his 


"FLOWERY  HARBOR"  87 

glance  at  a  faded  little  plank  at  the  side  of  the  gate 
which  proclaimed  that  this  was 

FLOWERY  HARBOR. 

"By  crickety,"  whispered  Mrs.  Meckley,  becoming 
profane  in  her  excitement ;  "he's  goin'  in !" 

She  wasn't  mistaken. 

Moreover,  there  was  an  odd  suggestion  of  romance 
not  only  in  the  stranger's  youth  and  the  fashion  in 
which  he  was  dressed,  but  also  in  the  way  he  appeared 
to  be  impressed  by  all  he  heard  and  saw. 

Just  a  vague  impression  that  came  to  Mrs.  Meckley, 
something  which  hadn't  escaped  her  bright  and  squirrel- 
like  eyes — her  whole  face  and  even  her  body  were  squir 
rel-like — and  yet  something  that  she  didn't  wholly  com 
prehend. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AS   SEEN   AND   OVERHEARD 

ALVAH  MORLEY,  singing  as  she  scrubbed  the  kitchen, 
heard  the  door-bell  ring — which  wasn't  surprising,  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  the  bell  was  mounted  on  a  spiral 
spring  against  the  kitchen  wall  and  was  designed  to  be 
heard  throughout  the  house.  She  stopped  short  in  the 
middle  of  a  "hallelujah."  She  sat  back  on  her  heels 
and  looked  at  the  bell  with  the  most  perfect  astonish 
ment,  as  at  a  phenomenon  that  had  never  occurred 
before. 

But  her  astonishment  held  her  for  only  a  second  or 
two. 

While  the  bell  was  still  jangling  she  scrambled  to  her 
feet,  and  untied  the  apron  that  enveloped  her. 

She  was  nineteen  or  so,  slim,  plain  rather  than 
pretty,  with  straw-colored  hair  and  not  very  rich  in 
color  otherwise — still  with  a  measure  of  that  beauty 
which  always  goes  with  youth  and  flushed  excitement. 

She  looked  down  at  her  skimpy,  blue  calico  dress. 
It  was  clean  at  any  rate.  Her  black  shoes  and  stock 
ings  were  passable.  They  were,  for  this  time  of  day 
when  folks  were  supposed  to  be  working,  anyway. 
But  who  could  be  ringing  the  door-bell  at  this  hour? 

She  ran  over  to  a  corner  of  the  kitchen  where  there 

88 


AS  SEEN  AND  OVERHEARD  89 

were  a  towel  and  a  small  looking-glass  and  other  toilet 
accessories.  She  jerked  some  water  into  an  enameled 
basin  from  a  half-filled  bucket.  She  rinsed  her  hands 
and  smoothed  her  hair,  all  with  a  nervous  energy  so 
speedy  that  she  had  completed  the  operation  by  the 
time  that  the  old  bell  was  just  quivering  back  into 
silence. 

Around  in  front,  the  stranger  who  had  rung  the  bell 
stood  there  at  the  top  of  the  rickety  stoop  and  pa 
tiently  waited.  He  knew  that  there  was  some  one 
home.  There  had  been  the  song  of  the  girl.  He  knew 
that  his  ring  had  been  heard.  He  had  heard  it  him 
self — and  the  song  had  stopped.  And  he  didn't  even 
wonder  what  the  girl  looked  like.  Nor  did  he  greatly 
care. 

So  there  was  a  room  to  let  in  Flowery  Harbor! 
Some  name !  And  that  old  gent  with  nerve  enough  to 
take  a  swig  on  his  front  door-step  and  still  swing  his 
coat-tails  like  that  would  most  likely  be  the  landlord. 
Say,  this  old  man  was  human! 

He  stood  there  like  that  with  the  smell  of  honey 
suckle  in  his  nose  and  the  echo  of  the  girl's  voice  still 
in  his  ears  and  a  propitious  impression  of  the  colonel 
on  the  surface  of  his  brain. 

He  felt  the  first  subtle  creep  of  a  hunch  he  had  been 
waiting  for. 

"I — I — beg  your  pardon!'* 

He  turned. 

Some  instinct  of  caution — or  some  other  instinct  less 
easily  defined — had  sent  Alvah  to  scurrying  around  the 
side  of  the  house  through  the  garden  instead  of  through 


90  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

the  gloomy  interior  of  the  house  itself.  She  stood  there 
now  at  the  corner  of  the  building — there  where  the 
mossy  brick  path  passed  under  a  tunnel  more  or  less 
well  defined  of  clematis,  syringa  and  lilac. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  the  stranger. 

He  had  set  his  suit-case  down.  He  jerked  his  right 
hand  to  his  hat,  but  he  left  the  hat  in  place.  This  was 
no  lady  standing  over  there.  This  was  nothing  but 
a  kid. 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  the  kid,  plainly  at  a  loss. 

"Is  your  mother  in?" 

"No,  sir." 

"I  came  to  see  about  the  room.  Maybe  you  can  tell 
me  about  it." 

"What  room?" 

"Say,  do  you  live  here?" 

"My  home  is  in  Bangor,  Maine." 

"Well,  do  you  work  here,  then?  I  want  to  find  out 
about  this  here  room." 

"There's  nobody  home." 

"You  said  it!     No,  honestly!     Ain't  nobody  here?" 

All  this  was  just  nuts  and  candy  for  old  Mrs.  Meek- 
ley  across  the  way.  She  could  get  most  of  the  con 
versation  by  straining  a  lot,  and  she  was  straining. 

"The  girl's  a  flirt,"  she  passed  judgment.  "She 
ought  to  be  switched." 

"Only  me,"  Alvah  was  saying. 

Despite  the  sagacious  deduction  of  Mrs.  Meckley 
from  what  had  already  transpired,  Alvah  had  an  ap 
pearance  of  timidity — of  timidity  touched  with  doubt 
and  not  a  little  fear,  as  if  she  were  not  quite  certain 


AS  SEEN  AND  OVERHEARD  91 

but  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of  some  one  slightly 
deranged.  She  was  reassured  to  some  extent,  however, 
by  the  stranger's  next  move. 

He  calmly  seated  himself  on  the  none-too-solid  rail 
ing  of  the  stoop. 

"Good  night !"  he  exclaimed,  in  spite  of  the  manifest 
morning.  "When  are  you  expecting  the  old  gent 
back?" 

"He  was  going  to  the  post-office.    He  won't  be  long." 

"Birdie's  there  with  the  goods  this  time,  anyway. 
All  right,  Birdie.  I'll  wait." 

Greek  to  Alvah;  but  nothing  unpleasant  about  it. 
Now  that  the  stranger  wasn't  looking  at  her,  she  could 
look  at  him.  She  discovered  that  he  wasn't  hard  to 
look  at.  His  face  rather  fascinated  her.  He  cer 
tainly  had  wonderful  eyes.  His  voice  and  his  lan 
guage  were  unmistakably  American,  but  he  looked  like 
a-  foreigner. 

She  dared  advance  a  step. 

As  she  did  so,  she  saw  that  there  was  something  sus 
pended  on  the  bell-pull.  She  advanced  some  more. 

The  next  time  that  the  stranger  looked  at  her  he  saw 
that  she  was  standing  as  if  hypnotized,  staring  at  the 
announcement  that  here  there  was  a  room  to  let.  There 
was  a  touch  of  drama  in  her  appearance  that  did  not 
escape  him — the  unaffected  pose  of  her  slight  frame, 
her  hands  folded  against  her  meager  breast ;  and  he  no 
ticed,  without  exactly  appraising  them,  the  fine  line  of 
her  cheek  and  chin,  the  whiteness  and  nobility  of  her 
forehead.  All  this,  nevertheless,  with  a  touch  of  con- 


92  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

descension  on  his  part — as  an  older  and  wiser  person 
annoyed  by  the  persistent  ignorance  of  a  dull  child. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"That  sign — it  isn't  so — some  one  put  it  there  for 
a  joke." 

"I  guess  you  got  another  think,"  he  said,  without  dis 
courtesy.  "I  see  the  old  gent  hangin'  it  up  himself  not 
ten  minutes  ago." 

"My  uncle?" 

"Gee,  it  takes  a  long  time  to  get  it  across.  Sure! 
The  old  gent  that  just  came  out  of  here.  What's  the 
matter?" 

The  girl  had  continued  to  stare  at  the  sign,  with 
scarcely  another  glance  for  the  visitor.  But  now  she 
looked  at  him,  squarely,  the  while  a  warmer  coloring 
came  into  her  face  and  a  shadowy  brightness  into  her 
hitherto  rather  cool,  gray  eyes. 

"You  are  certain  you  saw  my  uncle  put  that  sign 
there?" 

"Sure !  That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you— takes  it  out  of 
his  pocket  and  hangs  it  up  just  before  he  beats  it  up 
the  street.  I  ain't  stringin'  you." 

"But,  oh,  he  didn't  mean  it." 

She  was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  stranger.  She  ran 
lightly  up  the  stoop.  She  took  the  sign  from  the  place 
where  it  hung,  hid  the  letters  of  it  against  her  breast. 

"What's  the  idea?"  the  young  man  inquired,  softly, 
with  a  direct  invitation  to  confidence.  "What's  wrong? 
Ain't  he  got  a  right  to  rent  a  room  if  he  wants  to?  Is 
the  place  so  overcrowded?  Has  everybody  got  too 
much  coin?  Or  don't  he  own  the  house?  Or  what?" 


AS  SEEN  AND  OVERHEARD  93 

The  questions  merely  bewildered  the  girl.  At  the 
same  time  it  was  evident  that  most  of  them  went  home. 

"You  don't  understand,"  she  answered,  appealingly. 

"You  said  it." 

"My  uncle's  not  always  himself." 

The  confession  hurt  her ;  still,  some  sort  of  explana 
tion  was  in  order. 

"You  mean  he's  sort  of  hittin*  up  the  booze?" 

Her  troubled  eyes  were  her  only  answer.  It  was 
affirmation  enough. 

"You  don't  want  to  let  that  worry  you,  Mabel " 

"My  name  is  Alvah — Alvah  Morley." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Alvah.  That's  what  I'm  tellin' 
you.  The  old  gent  looked  all  to  the  good  to  me." 

"He's  the  finest  man  in  the  world,"  the  girl  flamed 
from  the  midst  of  her  trouble.  "Only,  there  are  times 
like  the  present  when  he  does  things  that  he  wouldn't 
do — if — only " 

"Look "  the  stranger  began. 

Hnt  there  came  a  diversion.  The  girl,  with  an  ex- 
clamation^o^^mingled  relief  and  consternation,  ran 
down  the  steps>  She  was  out  of  the  gate.  She  had 
seen  her  unck  coming  back  from  the  post-office. 

All  this  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  Mrs.  Meckley,  orer 
there  behind  her  screen  of  Osage  orange. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.   RICHARD   DA  VIES 

THE  youth  on  the  stoop  had  had  a  moment  of  hesita 
tion.  He  came  down  the  steps,  however,  and  met  the 
girl  and  the  old  gentleman  half-way  to  the  gate. 

"Ah!"  the  old  gentleman  exclaimed. 

"I  see  the  sign.     I  come  in.     I  ring  the  bell " 

"I  told  him "  the  girl  began. 

"Sir,  I  have  the  honor";  and  the  old  gentleman,  re 
moving  his  hat  and  thrusting  his  stick  under  his  arm, 
offered  his  hand. 

There  was  a  suggestion  in  the  move  that  "got  to" 
the  stranger,  as  he  himself  would  have  said — got  to 
him  in  a  pleasant  sort  of  way.  The  stranger  had  also 
pulled  his  hat,  had  taken  the  proffered  hand,  had  done 
this  with  a  quick  but  not  ungraceful  bow. 

"Permit  me  to  introduce  myself,"  said  the  elder,  "al 
though  that  may  not  be  necessary.  I  am  rather  widely 
known.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  of  the  Williamses. 
We've  had  a  fairly  active  part  in  the  history  of  our 
country." 

"Sure !     Everybody's  heard  about  the — Williamses." 

"I  am  Evan  Williams." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  colonel." 

"Ah!  I  see  that  you  are  familiar  with  my  honorary 
title." 

04 


MR.  RICHARD  DA  VIES  95 

"Sure!"  replied  the  young  man,  who  didn't  under 
stand. 

"And  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  ask  you  to  refresh  my 
memory?  It  seems  to  me  that  we  have  met." 

"I  don't  believe  so,  colonel." 

"Your  name  is?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause. 

"My  name?" 

They  were  still  locking  hands  in  the  original  grasp. 
Their  eyes  had  met. 

"Davies,"  the  young  man  answered. 

"A  splendid  name !  One  that  makes  you  doubly  wel 
come,  sir.  I  dare  say  the  Williamses  and  the  Davies 
were  fighting  side  by  side  long  centuries  ago." 

"I'll  take  your  word  for  it." 

"And  your  Christian  name,  if  I  may  ask?" 

"Richard !" 

"Richard  Davies!  Why,  sir!  Is  it  possible?  You 
are  doubtless  a  descendant  of  that  celebrated  Bishop 
Richard  Davies — do  you  recall? — whom  Queen  Eliza 
beth  called  her  'second  St.  David.'  " 

"You  may  be  right,  at  that." 

"For  you  are  Cymric.  Pardon  the  personality,  but 
I  could  tell  it  by  your  appearance  even  if  it  were  not 
for  your  fine  old  Cambrian  name." 

"Do  I  get  the  room?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted.  Let  us  inspect  the  premises, 
Mr.  Davies." 

"Uncle!" 

Colonel  Williams  turned  to  his  niece  with  mellow  good 
humor. 


96  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"What  will  the  neighbors  say?"  she  demanded,  con 
fused. 

"Say!  A  most  stirring  event!  A  Davies  become 
a  guest  in  the  house  of  a  Williams !  A  Celtic  reunion ! 
Didn't  I  tell  you  all  the  time  that  it  would  be  well 
with  us  if  we  accepted  a  lodger  or  two  ?  Come  in,  sir ! 
We'll  seal  our  acquaintance  as  gentlemen  should !"  He 
made  a  pawing  movement  with  his  hand  to  assure  him 
self  that  his  flask  was  in  the  old  familiar  place.  "  'Tis 
none  too  early  in  the  morn  to  touch  the  lyre!'* 

There  was  space  enough  in  the  Williams  mansion 
for  many  guests. 

Beyond  the  front  door  there  was  a  broad  hall,  high 
and  long,  up  two  sides  of  which  ran  a  flight  of  steps  to 
the  second  floor.  Four  large  rooms  opened  off  the  hall. 

"On  the  left,  the  drawing-room,"  said  the  colonel, 
while  Alvah  Morley  looked  on,  wide-eyed,  shrinking, 
yet  with  a  touch  of  rebellion  in  her  attitude.  "On  the 
right,  the  library.  Back  of  the  drawing-room,  our 
parlor  or  living-room,  and  opposite  that,  the  dining- 
room.  I  regret  the  absence  of  servants,  and  my  in 
ability  to  keep  the  place  up." 

"It  looks  good  to  me,"  breathed  Mr.  Richard  Davies. 

"As  soon  as  I  can  get  the  estate  settled — the  estate 
of  my  brother,  Abner,  sir,  to  which  I  have  devoted, 
not  unwillingly,  the  best  years  of  my  life,  I  shall  pro 
ceed  to  the  refurnishing  of  the  house." 

"It  looks  good  to  me,'*  the  one-time  Chick  repeated. 

He  was  glad  now  that  he  had  given  his  one  and  only 
true  name  to  the  old  gentleman.  The  hall  reared  its 
gloomy  grandeur  about  him.  There  were  no  carpets 


MR.  RICHARD  DA  VIES  97 

on  the  floor.  The  paper  on  the  wall  was  stained  by 
time  and  leakage,  for  it  was  evident  that  the  roof  of 
the  mansion  was  no  longer  at  its  best.  But  there  was  a 
solemnity  about  this  acceptance  of  him  in  a  home  like 
this  that  at  once  weighed  upon  him  and  lifted  him  up. 
The  place  not  only  looked  good  to  him;  it  looked  al 
most  too  good. 

"There's  only  one  thing,  colonel,"  he  broke  out  softly, 
as  soon  as  the  girl  had  disappeared  into  the  cavernous 
shadows  at  the  rear  of  the  hall ;  "you  haven't  said  any 
thing  about  the  price." 

"Of  what,  sir?" 

"The  room." 

"My  dear  sir,  you  are  my  guest  as  long  as  you  care 
to  remain.  I  am  honored." 

"Oh,  say!" 

"Not  a  word,  sir!" 

The  colonel  also  had  noticed  the  retirement  of  his 
niece.  He  cast  a  further  glance  to  assure  himself  that 
they  were  alone.  He  brought  his  flask  from  its  hiding- 
place.  He  uncorked  it,  elaborately  wiped  its  gullet 
with  his  hand. 

"As  our  ancestors  did  under  Rhodri  Mawr !"  he  in 
vited. 

"Not  for  mine !     I'm  on  the  wagon." 

"You  mean?" 

"Thanks !     I'm  leavin'  it  alone." 

"Sir,  I  honor  you.  But,  thirty  years  ago,  my  physi 
cian — it  was " 

"Look  out,"  the  younger  man  whispered.  "There's 
the  young  lady !" 


98  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

The  colonel  cleared  his  throat  and  put  the  bottle 
away. 

It  was  to  a  bedroom  on  the  second  floor  that  Mr. 
Richard  Davies  eventually  carried  his  suit-case — a 
room  that  was  larger  than  the  back  room  of  the  Com 
modore,  near  Chatham  Square ;  and  there  were  windows 
in  it  that  gave  both  on  the  old  garden  and  on  the  far 
country  beyond. 

"It  looks  good  to  me,"  said  the  lodger. 

Looked  good  to  him?  It  all  looked  so  good  that  it 
almost  hurt.  This  was  the  thing  he  had  come  out  to 
find.  Lonely?  Sure!  Ever  since  he  had  left  New 
York.  But  he  wasn't  going  to  weaken.  Not  yet! 
Maybe,  after  a  while  he'd  duck.  Maybe!  Why  not 
con  himself  along?  Maybe,  after  a  while,  he'd  just 
naturally  get  sick  of  trying  to  make  a  living  by  selling 
soap,  or  other  things,  and  nick  some  rube  for  his  roll — 
for  keeps,  this  time! 

And  then,  right  then,  from  the  combination  of  all 
the  things  that  were  coming  to  him  through  the  open 
window — sky  and  earth,  air  and  bird-song — came  some 
thing  that  recalled  old  Ezra  Wood,  not  as  a  rube,  but 
as  a  white  and  shining  giant  who  had  exerted  a  strange 
influence  over  him. 

It  was  almost  as  if  he  could  hear  that  good  old 
man  speak  again: 

"The  Lord   have   pity   on   us   all!" 

"Every    day  'most  a  hundred  years   long,   each  year  a  happy 
lifetime." 
"If  he'd  stayed  in  the  country  we  might  have  saved  him" 


MR.  RICHARD  DA  VIES  99 

"Ah,  hell !"  he  said.  "This  is  fierce !  I  wonder  what 
Phil  and  Solly  are  pullin'  to-day?  And  old  Sky-Blue? 
And  Myrtle?" 

'Way  back? 

Say!    This  was  it.     'Way  back  a  million  miles! 

And  he  had  become  Mr.  Richard  Davies.  He  was 
glad  that  he  had  laid  that  name  aside  and  kept  it  clean 
— laid  it  aside  so  many  years  ago  that  he  could  hardly 
remember  when ;  but  he  did  remember,  indistinctly,  the 
dark-eyed  woman  who  had  been  his  mother,  and,  more 
indistinctly  yet,  mistily,  the  gray  specter  who  had  been 
his  father ;  the  specter  of  a  distinguished  man  who  had 
been  Mr.  Richard  Davies  also.  Then  the  night  of  flame 
and  smoke  wherein  his  parents  disappeared.  They 
must  have  been  living  in  a  poor  neighborhood.  Old 
Denny,  the  wood-merchant,  had  become  his  foster-par 
ent,  and  that  was  when  he  was  eight  years  old. 

"Mr.  Davies!" 

The  girl  was  calling  him. 

He  stepped  over  to  the  door  so  swiftly,  and  opened 
it  so  deftly,  that  it  frightened  her. 

"My  uncle  wants  to  know,"  she  recited,  "if  you  will 
do  us  the  honor  of  taking  tea  with  us." 

"Sure !     Much  obliged." 

"It'll  be  at  about  dark,"  she  said.  "Uncle  likes  to 
eat  his  supper  by  candle-light." 

"Tell  him  I'll  be  there,  and  much  obliged." 

He  stood  there  at  his  door  and  watched  her  go 
away,  a  pale  shape  disappearing  in  the  shadows  to 
ward  the  back  of  the  upper  hall.  Now  that  he  thought 
of  it,  he  somehow  or  other  felt  sorry  for  this  kid. 


CHAPTER  XV 

UP   THE   STREET 

BUT,  also,  he  felt  sorry  for  himself.  He  couldn't  help 
it.  There  was  something  about  this  very  room  that 
recalled  that  vaguely  remembered  home  of  his  child 
hood  when  his  parents  were  still  alive — bare  walls  with 
broken  plaster,  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  a  somewhat 
caved-in  bed  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  There  was 
even  something  reminiscent  in  the  flowers,  the  greenery, 
and  the  bird-song. 

He  guessed  the  truth. 

There  was  a  geranium  on  the  window-sill  of  that 
earlier  home.  A  neighbor  had  a  canary  in  a  cage. 

He  pulled  off  his  shoes.  He  partly  undressed  him 
self.  He  cast  a  longing  gaze  at  the  bed.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  hadn't  slept  since  leaving  the  old  town 
back  there,  and  he  always  did  prefer  sleeping  in  the 
daytime.  A  dreaminess  drew  him.  He  wasn't  hungry. 
He  had  eaten  a  hearty  meal  not  much  more  than  an 
hour  ago,  at  a  farmer's  house,  a  mile  or  so  back  along 
the  road,  and  the  farmer  had  refused  to  take  a  cent 
for  his  hospitality.  None  the  less,  memory  of  this  meal 
brought  up  a  hundred  souvenirs  of  savory  Chinese  and 
Italian  dishes  in  the  city  he  had  left.  Wouldn't  it  be 

100 


UP  THE  STREET  101 

great,  after  all,  to  wake  up  and  find  a  dish  of  chow- 
mein  at  his  side? 

He  crawled  onto  the  bed  and  let  himself  go. 

He  slept  the  afternoon  away.  And,  instantly,  when 
he  awoke,  there  flashed  into  his  thought  a  clear  and 
concise  record  of  the  girl  of  this  house,  and  of  the 
colonel,  her  uncle,  and  of  the  house  itself.  The  record 
brought  with  it  a  little  mental  groan.  What  was  he 
that  he  should  thus  let  them  think  that  he  was  their 
equal?  That  he  should  take  a  room  in  this  house  of 
theirs?  Set  himself  up  as  the  son,  or  the  grandson, 
or  something,  of  a  bishop? 

The  only  answer  to  these  questions  was  a  pang  of 
homesickness  so  poignant  that  he  could  have  wept. 

Then  he  listened  to  the  silence,  and  the  silence  weighed 
upon  him  as  the  earth  might  weigh  upon  the  chest  of  a 
man  buried  alive.  There  for  a  minute  or  so  the  silence 
was  absolute.  Not  even  a  bird  twittered.  Not  a  wheel 
turned.  No  one  spoke. 

"I  got  to  get  back,"  he  whispered.  "I'll  stick  it  out 
a  day  or  so  longer.  But  I  got  to  get  back !" 

He  crept  over  to  the  window  in  his  bare  feet  and 
looked  down  into  the  garden.  He  saw  Alvah  Morley 
down  there.  She  was  picking  flowers.  He  saw  that 
she  had  changed  her  dress.  He  wondered  why.  And 
he  noticed  that  she  wasn't  such  a  kid  as  he  had  be 
lieved  her  to  be.  More  like  a  school-teacher  she  was — 
a  white  cotton  dress,  fresh  and  crinkly  from  the  wash, 
her  straw-colored  hair  drawn  back  in  a  smooth  knot 
and  ornamented  with  a  blue  silk  ribbon. 

What  if  she  knew  the  sort  of  life  he  had  led ! 


102  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

He  wondered  where  her  uncle  was.  The  colonel 
might  hit  up  the  booze,  but  he  was  none  the  less  the 
gentleman.  "What  am  I  to  rub  elbows  with  him? 
Even  if  I  am  Mr.  Richard  Davies !"  And  wasn't  the 
colonel  a  prince  when  it  came  to  speaking  English? 
He  was ! 

"My  uncle  hasn't  come  home  yet,"  said  the  girl,  as 
he  came  down-stairs  after  a  while.  "I  suppose  that 
we  shall  have  to  wait  for  him — unless  you're  in  a 
hurry." 

"Me  in  a  hurry?  Say,  what  do  you  do  around  here 
at  night?" 

"After  supper  we  talk — sometimes — and  sometimes  I 
try  to  play  the  organ,  only  it's  not  in  very  good  condi 
tion.  Sometimes  I  read  to  uncle.  Sometimes  he  reads 
to  me." 

There  was  almost  always  that  provisional  sometimes 
in  all  she  said.  As  she  spoke,  moreover,  she  turned, 
now  with  acute  expectancy,  again  with  lingering  pa 
tience,  to  look  in  the  direction  whence  she  expected  her 
uncle  to  appear. 

"Where's  he  gone — the  post-office  again?" 

"He  can't  have  gone  to  the  post-office,"  said  the 
girl,  "for  St.  Clair  only  gets  one  mail  a  day,  and  that's 
the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

The  sun  had  gone  down.  It  was  getting  so  dark  that 
Mrs.  Meckley,  from  behind  her  screen  of  Osage  orange, 
could  not  make  out  much  any  more  but  two  dim  figures, 
one  of  them  pale  and  one  of  them  dark,  seated  on  the 
steps  of  the  stoop  across  the  way. 

"Scandalous,  I  call   it,"   she  repeated — repeated  it 


UP  THE  STREET  103 

over  and  over,  always  as  if  with  the  lurking  hope  that 
the  phrase  would  serve  as  an  incantation  to  bring  some 
thing  scandalous  about. 

The  crickets  had  been  singing  since  a  long  time — 
a  chirring  pulsation  of  sound,  as  if  it  were  the  sound 
of  a  mill  which  itself  was  manufacturing  the  material 
of  the  night.  Now  and  then  a  frog  croaked  in.  And, 
across  the  deepening  blue  where  the  stars  were  begin 
ning  to  shimmer,  a  few  bats  zigzagged,  reeled,  wavered 
swiftly  out  of  sight. 

"Do  you  want  me  to  go  and  find  out  where  he  is  ?" 
Davies  asked. 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  somethin'  might  'a'  happened  to 
him?" 

She  sat  motionless.  It  was  so  dark  by  this  time  that 
he  could  not  see  her  expression.  If  she  had  answered, 
he  had  not  heard. 

"What  are  those  queer  little  chippies  scootin'  around 
up  there?" 

Her  voice  reached  him,  strangled. 

"Those  are  bats." 

The  conversation  lapsed. 

"Say,"  he  exclaimed  at  last;  "I  don't  want  you  to 
think  I'm  fresh,  or  trying  to  butt  in;  understand? 
But  I  sort  of  feel  that  the  colonel's  a  friend  of  mine; 
see?  And  I'm  going  out  to  look  for  him." 

"Will  you?"  she  panted.     "Oh,  if  I  were  a  man !" 

"I'm  a  man!     What's  the  answer?" 

The  clairvoyance  of  the  strain  she  was  under  helped 
her  to  understand. 


104  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"There's  a  place — you  go  up  this  street  to  the  sec 
ond  corner,  and  then  you  turn  to  your  left  until  you 
come  to  the  last  building  on  the  left.  I'm  sure  he's 
there." 

"I'll  just  tell  him  you're  sort  of  waiting." 

"He  may  not  want  to  come  home." 

"They  never  do.  But,  say "  He  started  to 

explain  that  he  had  been  handling  booze-fighters  all 
his  life,  both  friend  and  foe,  but  he  checked  himself. 
The  girl  wouldn't  understand.  He  wound  up  by  won 
dering  where  he  had  left  his  hat. 

She  brought  it  to  him. 

"Don't  weaken,"  he  said.     "Keep  a  stiff  upper  lip." 

"I  will,"  she  whispered. 

But  say,  he  wondered,  what  could  it  be  like  when  the 
girl  was  all  alone  and  the  old  gent  out  on  a  spree  like 
this.  He  could  see  it  all.  The  colonel  had  begun  to 
get  his  spree  properly  started  early  in  the  day — 
maybe  the  night  before,  as  it  usually  happened. 

One  thing  was  sure.  He  himself  was  feeling  uncom 
monly  fit.  Apart  from  the  fact  that  he  was  a  little 
hungry,  he  had  never  felt  in  better  shape  in  his  life. 
This  training  out  in  the  country  was  sure  the  real  thing. 
His  wind  was  perfect.  His  muscles  had  suppled  up 
and  hardened.  The  long  sleep  of  the  afternoon  had 
ironed  out  his  nerves.  It  was  a  pity  that  there  wasn't 
a  mill  on  with  an  open  challenge.  Say,  feeling  like 
this,  he  could  just  about  lick  anything  between  welter 
and  light-heavy. 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  thought,  and  the  general 
fragrant  quality  of  the  night,  that  he  barely  noticed 


UP  THE  STREET  105 

what  there  was  to  be  seen  of  this  town  he  had  stumbled 
into.  Not  much  to  be  seen,  anyway — a  few  lighted 
windows  dimly  visible  through  black  bushes  and  trees,  a 
smelly  grocery  store  dimly  lit  by  a  kerosene-lamp,  a 
white  church  closed  and  dark,  more  houses  in  the  midst 
of  yards,  then  a  barber-shop,  and  this  was  the  second 
corner  the  girl  had  mentioned. 

He  turned  to  the  left. 

It  was  the  supper-hour,  evidently,  and  every  one  in 
doors.  He  didn't  meet  a  soul.  Say,  if  the  yeggs  ever 
did  discover  this  burg,  it  would  be  good-night-nurse  for 
the  local  bank  or  anything  else  they'd  want  to  crack. 
But  the  air  was  sure  all  right. 

He  breathed  deeply.  He  was  feeling  so  good  that 
he  shadow-boxed  a  little.  He  may  have  been  Welsh, 
as  the  colonel  had  declared  him  to  be.  And  the  Welsh 
have  the  reputation  of  being  a  mystic  race. 

Was  there  some  divine  urge  in  all  this^spontaneous, 
unconscious  preparation?  And  preparation  for  what, 
if  not  for  some  sort  of  a  combat  as  Richard  Davies — 
his  right  name — just  now  in  his  heart  had  hankered 
for? 

He  had  just  come  in  sight  of  what  must  have  been 
the  place  the  girl  had  mentioned,  the  last  building  up 
this  street,  brilliantly  lighted  as  compared  with  the 
rest  of  the  town  by  a  number  of  oil-lamps  with  reflec 
tors.  A  road-house  or  hotel,  apparently  well-patron 
ized,  with  a  dozen  muddy  autos  and  farm-wagons 
parked  along  its  front.  But  what  Davies  particularly 
noticed  was  that  there  was  a  row  in  progress  at  that 
end  of  the  building  devoted  to  its  bar. 


106  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

He  could  hear  the  squabble  of  voices  and  laughter. 
He  could  catch  a  fleeting  effect  of  shadows  on  the 
window — shadows  that  moved  rapidly.  He  felt  an  in 
stant  surge  of  something  almost  like  happiness,  at  first. 
This  was  the  life.  Say,  this  was  almost  like  the  Bow 
ery.  And  he  started  to  run. 

But  he  was  still  a  dozen  yards  from  the  door  of  the 
barroom  when  the  nature  of  the  thing  that  was  hap 
pening  struck  him  full  tilt,  stopped  him  and  stopped 
his  breath. 

A  familiar  figure  was  being  hustled  through  the 
door.  That  was  the  colonel  they  were  flinging  out,  as 
Davies  saw. 

The  colonel  was  flung  out.  He  stumbled.  He  fell. 
He  rolled. 

"Oh!"  A  quick  intake  of  the  breath;  and  Davies 
felt  as  if  he  himself  had  been  fouled — kicked — hit  be 
low  the  belt! 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AGAINST  ALL   COMERS 

THE  colonel's  slouch  hat  and  his  cane  followed  him — 
followed  him  so  fast  that  they  were  in  the  dirt  of  the 
road  at  the  colonel's  side  even  before  Davies  himself 
got  there. 

He  was  enough  of  the  fighter,  both  instinctive  and 
trained,  not  to  lose  his  temper.  Anyway,  it  wasn't 
anger  that  was  actuating  him  yet  so  much  as  sorrow. 
In  that  spectacle  of  the  old  man  thrown  into  the  street 
he  saw  the  wreck  of  a  lot  of  things — of  pride  and  edu 
cation,  and  of  the  affectionate  hopes  of  that  girl — 
that  poor  little  kid — who  was  waiting  now,  all  dressed 
up  in  her  picnic  clothes,  back  there  in  the  big  old 
house. 

He  was  at  the  old  man's  side  before  the  colonel  him 
self  could  make  a  movement  of  recovery. 

"Are  you  hurt?" 

"Alvah!" 

"This  ain't  Alvah.  This  is  your  old  friend,  Dick. 
Gimme  your  hand.  What  did  those  bums  do 'to  you?" 

He  wasn't  asking  the  question  for  information  pre 
cisely.  He  had  seen  well  enough  what  had  been  done 
to  the  colonel.  But  he  had  to  say  something  while  he 

107 


108  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

was  getting  the  colonel  to  his  feet — had  to  do  it  to  stifle 
his  own  mind  if  for  no  other  reason. 

The  door  of  the  barroom  was  becoming  jammed  by 
those  who  wanted  to  get  the  most  out  of  the  spectacle. 
Some  had  been  pushed  out  of  the  door  even,  by  friends 
behind  who  were  struggling  to  get  a  better  view.  Most 
of  the  spectators  were  convulsed.  This  was  the  fun 
niest  thing  they  had  seen  for  a  long  time.  Gus  sure 
had  landed  the  colonel  on  his  ear.  But  had  you  seen 
the  colonel  try  to  fight  back?  This  would  be  a  good 
lesson  for  the  old  rummy.  Him  talking  about  his 
honor! — and  fighting  duels!  Some  one  should  have 
landed  him  on  his  ear  before. 

Davies  heard  all  this.  The  colonel  must  have  heard 
it,  too.  The  colonel  was  meek  and  humiliated.  He 
wasn't  greatly  hurt  in  a  physical  way.  None  the  less 
he  had  become  the  tottering  old  man.  He  hadn't  been 
so  drunk  after  all,  or  perhaps  the  misadventure  had 
sobered  him.  Anyway,  he  cast  a  look  of  such  utter 
chagrin,  shame,  weakness,  appealing  despair  at  this  one 
last  friend  he  had  left  in  the  world,  that  Davies  felt 
something  crack  inside  his  heart. 

He  turned  and  walked  straight  over  toward  the 
group  at  the  barroom  door.  He  was  so  calm,  and 
smooth,  and  swift  that  no  one  could  have  suspected 
what  was  up.  Besides,  Davies  wasn't  looking  at  any 
one  in  particular.  His  dark  eyes  were  off  at  a  slant. 
Still,  he  could  see  everything. 

He  saw  the  two  nearest  members  of  the  jovial  mob. 
They  were  both  big  men  as  to  weight  and  stature. 
Both  were  laughing. 


AGAINST  ALL  COMERS  109 

"Go  on  and  laugh !"  Davies  advised. 

He  swung  with  his  right  and  gave  a  straight-arm 
jolt  with  his  left.  The  right  landed  on  whiskers  and 
a  jaw.  The  left  went  on  and  on  into  the  region  of  a 
solar  plexus,  but  finally  stopped  against  a  weight  so 
heavy  that  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  push  it  over. 

At  that,  he  still  had  time  and  strength  to  shove  an 
open-handed  jab  into  another  grinning  face  and  jerk 
his  elbow  up  under  the  chin  of  some  one  else. 

"Laugh,  you  bunch  of  mutts!" 

"He's  hit  the  commissioner!     Kill  him!" 

"Git  out  o9  my  way!" 

"Grab  him.,  boys!  Get  him!  Look  out!  You're 
walk-in'  on  Mr.  Crane!" 

"Fit  learn  you  to  rough-hou$e,  yuli  stiffs!" 

"Look  out,  ding-dern  ye!     Help!" 

But  it  was  not  until  he  was  in  the  barroom  itself  that 
Davies  clearly  perceived  what  he  had  come  to  seek. 
There  was  already  a  movement  among  those  who  had 
lingered  at  the  bar  to  join  the  riot  at  the  door.  Davies 
had  an  eye  for  these.  He  sized  them  up  en  masse.  He 
saw  that  they  could  have  made  up  the  average  bar 
room  crowd  almost  anywhere — in  New  York  as  much  as 
in  any  village — riffraff,  heavy  respectables,  light 
weight  sports  and  weaklings.  But  it  was  not  for  these 
that  his  attention  was  predestined. 

He  saw  the  bulking  form  of  a  man  dressed  in  dirty 
white,  bullet-headed,  thick  in  the  neck,  making  his 
way  around  the  end  of  the  bar,  and  he  needed  no  label 
at  all  to  tell  him  that  this  was  the  original  victor  in 
the  fight  with  the  colonel. 


110  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Everything  had  been  going  so  fast  that  there  had 
been  no  time  as  yet  for  readjustments. 

They  were  still  jostling  each  other  over  at  the  door 
trying  to  get  a  line  on  what  had  happened.  Those  at 
the  bar  were  only  sure  of  one  thing,  thus  far,  and  that 
was  that  the  colonel  had  been  thrown  out  on  his  neck. 
Gus  had  told  them  so.  And  Gus  himself  may  have 
thought  that  this  fresh  throb  of  excitement  back  of 
him  was  merely  some  sort  of  a  fresh  demonstration 
of  enthusiasm  for  the  prowess  he  had  shown. 

Then  the  lightning  struck. 

It  was  blinding  at  first — dazzling — making  it  hard 
to  see  just  what  had  happened. 

But  Gus  seemed  to  know.  Rough-house,  as  he  him 
self  would  have  said,  was  his  middle  name.  Nature  had 
endowed  him  with  the  thews  and  the  constitution  of 
a  bull,  yet  he  had  passed  his  life  in  saloons — in  labor- 
camps  and  mill-towns,  in  the  black  valleys  of  Penn 
sylvania,  along  the  waterfronts  of  Boston,  Clereland, 
San  Francisco. 

"Loofc  out!" 

Some  one  at  the  bar  had  that  much  sense. 

Gus  ducked.  He  turned  a  little  to  see  that  a  stran 
ger  had  entered  the  bar,  and  that  the  stranger  was 
out  for  blood.  Why  hadn't  some  one  tipped  him  off 
that  the  colonel  had  a  son  or  something — somebody 
who  was  likely  to  come  back?  The  slob  had  almost 
pasted  him  one  while  his  back  was  turned. 

But  Gus  was  equal  to  the  occasion — or  thought  that 
he  was.  He  slid  his  bulk  back  of  the  bar,  still  crouch 
ing,  conscious  that  on  occasions  like  this  somebody 


AGAINST  ALL  COMERS  111 

was  likely  to  shoot.  He  hoped  that  the  mirror  wouldn't 
be  smashed.  Still,  it  was  better  to  have  a  smashed  mir 
ror  than  a  bullet  through  the  neck. 

While  all  this  was  glancing  through  his  elemental 
mind,  his  big  paw  had  nevertheless  shot  out  in  the  direc 
tion  of  his  bung-starter — a  slender  mallet  of  heavy 
wood  and  a  weapon  as  he  had  been  trained  to. 

But  he  didn't  get  the  chance  to  use  it. 

That  enemy  of  his  also  knew  something  about  bar 
room  tactics — knew  that  there  was  apt  to  be  an  arsenal 
of  sorts  behind  the  wet  counter.  Say,  this  was  just 
like  a  gang-fight,  only  he  would  have  to  be  the  gang 
all  by  himself. 

And  Davies  took  a  short  cut  in  an  effort  to  reach  the 
arsenal  first.  He  slid  right  over  the  bar  and  landed 
on  his  feet.  The  next  moment  he  had  his  two  hands 
locked  on  the  big  barkeep's  throat  and  was  pushing 
him  back  toward  the  open. 

It  was  desperate  work — a  welterweight  against  a 
heavy  and  no  room  to  manoeuver  about  in. 

Gus  flailed  and  kicked. 

"I  show  you!" 

"Will  yuh?" 

There  was  a  crash  of  glass  jangling  down  from  a 
polished  pyramid  of  glasses  that  had  stood  on  the 
shelf  back  of  the  bar,  and  a  trickle  of  red  from  the 
side  of  Gus's  face. 

And  there  they  were  in  the  open. 

They  stood  there,  face  to  face,  a  couple  of  yards 
between  them,  in  the  middle  of  the  barroom — sawdust 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

on  the  floor,  a  drift  of  blue  tobacco-smoke  in  the  air, 
a  subsidence  of  racket  and  confusion  about  them. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  Davies  heard  a  number  of 
voices : 

"Rush  him!" 

"Git  the  marshal!" 

"Git  a  gun!     Git  a  roper 

It  was  evident  that  he  wasn't  going  to  have  very 
much  time  to  do  whatever  he  had  to  do.  A  look  of 
pain  came  into  his  face.  He  grabbed  his  left  shoulder 
with  his  hand,  lurched  a  little.  A  feint! 

Gus  rushed  him,  believing  the  stranger  already  hurt. 

As  he  did  so,  however,  Davies  sidestepped  and  met 
him  with  a  left  hook  to  the  chin.  Then  he  heaved  all 
his  strength  and  weight  into  another  right  swing  for 
the  big  man's  neck.  He  landed. 

Something  whirled  past  Davies's  head  and  smashed 
itself  against  the  wall.  Then  the  mob  was  invading 
the  ring. 

"Missed  him!  Rush  him!  Help!  Help!  'K'out,  er 
tfll  be  hittin'  Gust" 

Davies's  mind  flashed  him  a  picture  of  something 
like  this  that  had  happened  before — a  mill  in  a  frowzy 
little  fighting  club,  and  the  favorite  getting  the  worst 
of  it,  and  then  the  riot,  with  himself  and  his  seconds 
fighting  against  such  odds  as  these. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    PEACE    ANGEL 

HE  did  now  what  he  did  then.  He  zigzagged,  too 
shifty  and  quick  for  anything  to  hit  him  except  by 
accident.  He  didn't  have  far  to  go.  And  he  had  a 
chair.  Just  in  time  to  wallop  it  down  on  the  back 
of  Gus's  neck  and  shoulders,  and  the  chair  collapsed. 
So  did  Gus — for  the  moment  he  did — sprawled  right  on 
in  the  direction  he  had  been  going,  legs  spraddling, 
hands  out. 

Here  is  the  thing  that  stamped  itself  on  Davies's 
mind: 

Gus  was  falling  just  as  the  colonel  had  fallen.  Yea, 
bo,  Gus  had  got  his ! 

A  long  way  of  stating — and  yet  the  only  way  to 
state  it — the  concept  of  an  instant. 

And  then  the  crowd,  as  much  as  Davies  himself,  was 
aware  that  the  collapsed  chair  was  a  very  dangerous 
weapon — more  dangerous  than  it  was  before  it  col 
lapsed.,  for  Davies  had  jerked  it  apart. 

He  flung  the  back  of  it  like  a  whirling  boomerang, 
and,  before  he  heard  the  shattering  of  the  mirror — 
if  he  heard  it  at  all — he  had  jerked  the  solid  seat 
of  the  chair  straight  into  the  welter  of  shapes  in 
front  of  him.  What  he  did  with  the  rest  of  the  chair 

113 


114  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

he  never  did  exactly  know.  But  there  he  was,  at  last, 
with  a  leg  of  the  thing  in  his  hand — and  also  the  pain 
ful  but  certain  knowledge  in  his  brain  that  the  next 
step  might  be  murder. 

He  was  ready  for  it.  There  are  times  when  no  man 
can  turn  back.  This  was  one  of  them. 

There  was  a  momentary  truce,  at  any  rate. 

"The  next  of  youse  guys,"  he  panted,  "who  makes 
a  false  move — gets  this!" 

There  was  sufficient  inspiration  for  a  truce,  es 
pecially  on  the  part  of  the  crowd — this  stranger 
standing  there  like  a  black  panther  at  bay,  Gus 
sprawled  on  the  floor,  three  or  four  other  friends  and 
neighbors  scattered  about  bruised  and  bleeding,  the 
big  bar-mirror  splintered,  glasses  smashed,  all  this  as 
the  swift  sequence  of  a  little  low  comedy  natural  to 
the  ejection  of  an  undesirable  old  customer. 

But  the  truce  couldn't  possibly,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  last  very  long.  Another  explosion  was  bound 
to  follow.  And  one  did. 

Only  it  wasn't  the  kind  they  had  looked  for. 

Davies  saw  it  first.  His  attention  had  to  be  every 
where.  The  attention  of  the  others  was  concentrated 
on  him  only. 

He  saw  old  Colonel  Evan  Williams  coming  in  through 
the  outer  door,  which  was  open.  He  saw  that  the 
colonel  was  not  alone — saw  that  he  was  accompanied 
by  Alvah  Morley,  his  niece — and  that  Alvah,  still  in 
her  picnic  dress  and  without  a  hat,  her  straw-colored 
hair  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon,  was  very  stiff  and  very 
white.  She  was  just  like  a  dead  girl  who  had  come 


.THE  PEACE  ANGEL  115 

to  life  and  come  walking  into  this  place  to  make  men 
feel  ashamed  of  themselves. 

She  came  accompanied  by  music,  so  far  as  Davics 
was  concerned.  In  the  tomblike  silence  that  wallowed 
over  everything1  and  everybody  like  a  descent  of  noise 
less  water,  he  could  hear  a  fine,  remote,  phonographic 
record  of  that  song  she  had  sung  in  the  morning: 

"Glory!    Glory!    Hallelujah! 
Glory!    Glory!    Hallelujah!" 

She  stared  about  her,  whitely.  She  saw  Davies, 
spoke  to  him  with  all  emotion  repressed: 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  let  you  come  for  my  uncle.  I 
waited  a  while,  then  thought  that  I  had  better  come  my 
self.'* 

She  was  making  a  simple  explanation.  Her  voice 
was  cold  and  clear,  soft  yet  penetrating. 

Some  one  bawled: 

"You'd  do  better  to  keep  him  hum." 

The  girl  gave  a  slow  glance  in  the  direction  the 
voice  came  from,  and  silence  descended  again.  Once 
more  she  turned  to  Davies. 

"Go  on!"  he  adjured.  "It's  all  right.  Take  the 
colonel  home !  I'll  'tend  to  this  mob !" 

All  the  time  that  he  spoke — and  his  sentences  came 
out  sharp  and  fast — he  scattered  his  glances  over  the 
others  in  the  room.  Some  were  looking  at  the  girl. 
Some  looked  at  him.  There  was  a  tremor  of  suspended 
action.  Peril  in  the  air. 

Yellow  light.     Sawdust  floor,  with  Gus  sprawled  in 


116  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

the  center  of  it.  Bar  in  the  background.  A  stupid, 
bewildered  crowd. 

Tragedy !     Drama ! 

Say,  was  this  the  village  of  St.  Clair  or  the  big 
man-eating,  soul-mauling  city  whence  he  had  fled?  It 
was  a  thought  that  frightened  him,  right  then  and  there, 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  excitement. 

The  crowd  scuffled  and  muttered. 

"Serves  9m  right!" 

"Who  right?" 

"Gust" 

"The  colonel /" 

"What's  happened?" 

"What's  'at  she  says?'9 

"Qwt  jwsltin'." 

And  then,  Davies,  thinking  that  he  saw  a  movement 
to  crowd  the  girl,  jumped  forward  with  his  stick. 

"Git  back !"  he  grated,  "er  I'll  send  yuhs  all  to  hell!" 

There  was  a  brief  stampede  which  gave  him  elbow 
room.  Yet  the  crowd  was  growing,  swelled  by  fresh 
arrivals  from  other  parts  of  the  building  and  the  street 
outside. 

"This  gentleman  is  my  friend,"  the  colonel  cried. 

"Take  him  out,"  Davies  told  the  girl. 

She  eyed  the  crowd.  She  looked  at  him.  All  this 
was  transpiring  in  lurid  moments.  The  girl  had  put 
out  her  hand  to  his  arm.  There  may  have  been  some 
slight  hint  that  she  was  losing  her  splendid  grip  on 
herself. 

"I  found  him  outside,"  she  said.     "He  was  trying  to 


THE  PEACE  ANGEL  117 

get  in.  He  wouldn't  go  without  you.  Are  you  ready 
to  leave?" 

Davies,  still  ready  for  action,  eyed  the  crowd. 

"Sure!" 

Some  one  else  spoke  up. 

"He  don't  leave  here  except  he's  dead  er  grin'  to 
jati!" 

Again  the  girl  turned. 

"You  needn't  hide,  Sam  Bosely !  I  suppose  your 
folks  will  be  glad  to  know  you  were  here  drinking 
again  when  you  swore  you  wouldn't,  and  that  on  your 
bended  knees." 

"I  did  not,"  snarled  Sam. 

But  there  were  cries  of  "Shut  up!"  and  "Get  out 
of  the  way." 

A  number  of  the  citizens  were  salving  the  fallen 
barkeeper.  In  the  midst  of  their  efforts,  Gus — under 
his  own  power,  so  to  speak — got  up  as  far  as  a  sitting 
position. 

"Bring  him  some  whisky!" 

Gus  let  out  a  roar:  "Nobody  go  behind  that  bar 
but  me." 

He  moaned  and  rocked.  He  felt  the  back  of  his 
head. 

The  girl  was  letting  her  cool  eyes  focus  on  face 
after  face.  Some  of  the  men  she  looked  at  backed 
away  and  made  ready  to  depart. 

"Beat  it,"  said  Davies.  "This  is  my  scrap.  I 
don't  need  any  help." 

"This  is  my  battle,  sir,"  the  colonel  broke  in. 

There  may  have  been  those  present  who  thought  that 


118  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

this  was  a  signal  for  a  resumption  of  the  comedy.  It 
was  about  time  for  a  reaction.  And  they  were  right  in 
a  way,  but  not  altogether.  The  colonel  had  broken 
away  from  his  niece.  He  was  completely  sobered. 
That  was  evident.  He  stood  there  solidly,  with  his 
feet  wide  apart,  his  gnarled  cane  gripped  in  one  hand, 
his  slouch  hat  in  the  other. 

But  again  the  girl  interposed. 

"I  know  you  all,"  she  said.  "If  you  do  anything 
to  this  young  man  you'll  all  be  there  as  witnesses — 
you,  Mr.  Snow,  with  your  sister-in-law  as  a  character 
witness;  and  you,  Hank  Purvy,  expecting  to  marry  a 
woman  whose  husband's  not  dead  yet ;  and  you,  Caspar 
Clark,  after  breaking  your  mother's  heart." 

"  'Tam't  so!" 

"She's  got  ye,  Harik!" 

"Ye'er  a  liar!" 

But  the  girl's  quiet  voice  dominated  the  other  voices. 

"Your  license  goes" — she  was  facing  Gus,  who  was 
still  staggered,  but  able  to  stand — "if  it  takes  the  rest 
of  my  life." 

"My  God !"  bellowed  Gus.  "As  if  I  ain't  got  trouble 
enough." 

"Close  yer  yip,"  said  a  tough  young  farmer,  shifting 
his  eyes  from  the  girl  to  Gus.  "Close  yer  yip,  yuh  big 
fat  ferriner.  If  yuh  don't " 

The  girl  turned  coldly  to  her  uncle  and  Davies. 

"Come  on,"  she  said,  "we'll  go." 

They  went. 

They  left  the  barroom  without  haste,  and  not  a 
word  or  a  hand  was  raised  to  stay  them.  Davies  even 


THE  PEACE  ANGEL  119 

lingered  a  moment.  It  was  to  speak  a  word  to  the 
tough  young  farmer.  Just  one  word : 

"Thanks!" 

But  the  young  farmer  was  even  too  tough  for  such 
brief  amenities.  He  looked  away.  And  Davies,  smil 
ing  slightly,  but  still  with  that  chair-leg  in  his  hand 
in  case  of  emergency,  followed  the  colonel  and  his  niece 
out  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    TOUCH    DIVINE 

THEY  walked  in  silence,  and  they  walked  slowly,  until 
they  were  well  beyond  the  zone  of  light  and  sound 
that  encompassed  the  hotel.  At  first,  the  colonel  was 
between  Davies  and  the  girl.  They  were  supporting 
him,  for  he  still  tottered.  He  was  like  one  who  would 
have  collapsed,  and  would  have  done  so  willingly, 
were  it  not  for  the  strength  they  were  lending  him. 

"Richard,"  said  the  colonel,  weakly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I  trust  that  you  were  not  hurt." 

"They  never  touched  me." 

"They  were  cowards,"  breathed  the  girl  with  sup 
pressed  tumult. 

"Not  cowards,"  the  colonel  protested.  "They  de 
fied  me.  But  they  were  not  gentlemen.  They  took  me 
unawares." 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  folks,"  Davies  declared 
with  ebbing  passion,  "I  would  have  just  about  croaked 
a  couple  of  those  yahoos  and  taken  my  chance  at  the 
chair." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  colonel.  He  explained: 
"I'm  a  little  deaf  in  my  right  ear,  Richard.  Let  me 
walk  on  the  other  side  of  you."  They  shifted  their 

120 


THE  TOUCH  DIVINE  121 

positions,  and  Davies  was  next  to  the  girl.  "You  be 
haved  with  the  utmost  gallantry,"  the  colonel  pursued. 
"You  showed  your  Welsh  descent.  'Twas  thus  they 
fought — your  ancestors  and  mine — under  Rhodri  Mawr 
and  Owen  Glendower." 

"They  were  easy." 

"Easy  for  one  who  bears  the  name  of  Richard  Da- 
vies.  Blood  will  tell.  One  gentleman  like  you  is  al 
ways  worth  a  score  from  the  mob." 

Davies  was  silent.  Should  he  speak  up — tell  them 
who  he  was  and  where  he  came  from  ?  What  sort  of  a 
life  he  had  lived?  Who  his  associates  had  been?  Why 
not?  He  couldn't  go  on  fooling  a  friend.  And  this 
old  man  was  his  friend.  It  made  him  feel  ashamed  of 
himself.  Why  not  come  right  out  and  tell  the  colonel 
all  about  it,  then  make  a  getaway? 

While  he  was  thus  debating  with  himself,  and  the 
colonel  was  talking  on  and  on,  in  an  effort  to  cover 
up  the  awkwardness  of  the  situation  and  conceal  his 
own  confusion,  something  happened  that  held  Davies 
silent,  caused  a  faint  tremor  to  run  through  him — to 
run  through  him  body  and  soul,  so  he  himself  would 
have  confessed  had  he  been  given  to  that  form  of 
speech. 

And  yet  it  was  nothing  much,  this  thing  that  had 
happened. 

At  first  it  was  a  mere  touch  on  his  arm. 

"My  father  and  mother  passed  out  when  I  was  pretty 
young,"  he  had  begun. 

And  then  Alvah  had  taken  his  arm.  The  light  and 
slender  curve  of  her  palm  was  about  his  elbow.  At  first 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

he  thought  that  this  was  a  mere  gesture  of  impulse. 
Then  the  pressure,  although  still  light,  became  fixed 
and  real. 

"It  is  a  pity,  Richard,"  the  colonel  said.  'They 
would  have  been  proud  of  you." 

Davies  could  not  tear  his  attention  away  from  the 
feel  of  the  girl's  light  hand.  She  trusted  him  as  much 
as  the  colonel  did.  That  was  clear.  Should  he  let 
her  also  know  that  he  had  been  a  crook  all  his  life,  one 
of  the  most  expert  pickpockets — if  he  did  say  it  him 
self! — that  even  New  York  had  known?  But  right 
on  top  of  this  question  came  some  fierce  assertion 
from  his  heart  that  she  was  right  in  trusting  him,  that 
he  was  to  be  trusted. 

It  was  still  early,  but  the  dark  village  lay  somnolent 
about  them.  The  maple-trees  that  lined  the  path  and 
the  vines  and  bushes — rose  and  honeysuckle,  syringa 
and  lilac — that  filled  the  dewy  front  yards  transformed 
the  street  into  a  temple,  dusky,  mysterious,  where 
miracles  might  be  performed.  All  this  impressed  itself 
on  Davies  somewhat  like  the  charge  of  a  spiritual  mob. 
Should  he  prove  himself  any  less  of  a  fighter  in  the 
presence  of  this  mob  than  he  had  in  the  presence  of  that 
other  ? 

He  deliberately  looked  at  the  girl,  although  his 
glance  was  brief.  He  wondered  how  he  could  have 
thought  of  her  as  a  kid.  He  couldn't  even  think  of 
her  as  a  woman — not  in  the  terms  of  womanhood  such  as 
he  had  always  known. 

Tall,  slender,  dimly  white,  a  look  of  pain  and  grief 


THE  TOUCH  DIVINE 

and  desire  on  her  face,  all  these  veiled  to  some  extent 
by  a  dominant  courage. 

"My  parents  also  died  when  I  was  young,"  she  said. 

And  her  eyes  met  Richard's.  Only  for  a  second,  and 
yet  for  a  long  time  after  he  was  looking  ahead  again 
he  could  recall  the  look. 

"I've  lived  a  pretty  hard  life,"  he  said. 

This  time,  Alvah  did  press  his  arm.  There  was  no 
mistaking  it.  Nor  was  there  any  mistaking  of  the 
meaning  of  it. 

"Brace  up!"  was  what  the  pressure  said. 

All  this  time  the  colonel  was  speaking,  but  his  words 
had  become  a  monologue  with  himself  for  audience.  As 
for  Davies,  he  walked  alone  with  this  girl  at  his  side. 
It  was  almost  as  if  she  herself  did  not  exist — not  as 
an  earthly  entity — so  far  as  Davies  was  concerned. 

What  if  his  friends  and  pals  back  in  New  York  could 
see  him  now?  Wouldn't  they  laugh?  They  would. 
They'd  wonder  what  he  was  up  to.  They  wouldn't 
understand.  They  wouldn't  understand  that  the  touch 
of  this  clean  and  decent  hand  on  his  arm  was  something 
wonderful  and  strange. 

Perhaps  the  street  had  become  a  temple  where  mir 
acles  could  be  wrought.  Inwardly,  Davies  was  panting. 
It  was  with  a  stress  of  emotion  which  he  did  not 
analyze. 

As  soon  as  he  could,  he  went  up  to  his  room  with 
the  small  brass  lamp  that  the  girl  told  him  would  be 
his.  He  closed  the  door.  He  found  that  there  were 
wooden  shutters  at  the  window,  still  more  or  less  ef 
fective  despite  the  absence  of  numerous  slats.  He  closed 


124  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

the  shutters.  He  put  the  lamp  on  the  floor  and 
brought  out  his  suit-case  from  where  he  had  shoved  it 
under  the  bed. 

There  was  some  spare  linen  and  a  few  toilet  articles 
in  the  suit-case,  not  much.  Its  principal  contents  com 
prised  about  half  a  hundred  cakes  of  soap  in  small  and 
savory  packages  of  polished  and  gaily  printed  paper. 

This  thing  of  being  a  soap-agent  had  struck  him 
as  just  a  trifle  better  than  anything  else  when  he  was 
getting  away  from  New  York.  A  former  friend  had 
given  him  the  tip,  long  ago,  that  a  soap-agent's  path 
led  to  pleasure  and  profit,  should  he  ever  care  to 
disappear  from  the  big  town  for  any  length  of  time. 

Only  the  motive  had  been  different  from  those  his 
friend  had  implied.  He  had  been  starting  clean,  and 
soap  meant  cleanliness.  And  soap  was  something  that 
he  could  talk  about,  urge  folks  to  use.  It  was  some 
thing  that  he  liked  and  was  fond  of  using  himself. 

He  looked  at  the  supply  on  hand. 

Should  he  take  it  with  him,  or  should  he  leave  it? 
It  was  heavy.  Word  was  likely  to  be  sent  for  miles 
around,  to  the  marshals  and  constables,  the  sheriffs 
and  small-town  police,  to  be  on  the  lookout  for  a  soap- 
agent  who  had  roughed  things  in  St.  Clair.  And  yet, 
if  he  left  his  soap  behind,  wouldn't  he  be  bidding 
good-by  right  then  to  this  new  life  of  his?  Wouldn't 
he?  And  how  long  would  it  be  before  he  was  back  at 
the  old  trade  again  ?  Easy  money ! 

Again,  in  imagination,  he  could  feel  the  touch  of 
Alvah  Morley's  hand  on  his  arm.  Say,  that  was 


THE  TOUCH  DIVINE  125 

what  he  was  running  away  from.  And  yet  he  would 
take  it  with  him.  It  would  be  there  always. 

Yep! 

Just  when  he  was  going  to  gyp  somebody's  leather, 
there  would  come  that  touch  on  his  arm  and  he  would 
lose  his  nerve. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

BOUND    HAND    AND    FOOT 

HE  closed  the  suit-case  and  strapped  it.  He  took 
a  bill-fold  from  his  hip-pocket  and  from  this  extracted 
a  five-dollar  bill.  He  put  the  lamp  on  the  decrepit 
night-table  and  the  bill  under  the  lamp  where  the  girl 
would  be  sure  to  find  it.  He  blew  out  the  light.  He 
picked  up  his  heavy  suit-case  and  made  his  way  -silently 
out  into  the  hall.  He  hated  to  leave  like  this.  He 
would  have  liked  to  say  good-by.  But  what  was  the 
use?  His  conscience  was  clear.  The  five  would  cover 
everything. 

He  was  half-way  down  the  stairs  on  his  way  to  the 
front  door,  moving  with  all  the  caution  he  could  master, 
when  a  sound  of  movement  and  voices  made  him  halt 
and  hold  his  breath. 

The  colonel  and  the  girl  were  down  there.  He  had 
believed  them  to  be  in  their  rooms,  possibly  asleep. 
They  hadn't  even  come  upstairs.  At  least,  the  colo 
nel  hadn't.  From  the  girl's  first  words  it  was  evident 
that  she  had  been  looking  for  the  colonel,  had  just 
found  him. 

"You  mustn't  stay  there  in  the  dark,"  she  said 
gently.  "Come,  now.  Go  to  bed — and  sleep.  To 
morrow  you  will  be  feeling  better." 

126 


BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  127 

The  colonel's  response  was  an  indistinct  murmur. 

Alvah  was  carrying  a  lamp.  She  and  the  colonel  ap 
peared  from  the  back  parlor.  They  paused  at  the  foot 
of  the  opposite  flight  of  the  double  stairway.  They 
were  so  close  that  Davies  did  not  dare  to  move  one 
way  or  the  other.  At  least,  he  was  in  comparative 
darkness.  As  for  Alvah  and  her  uncle,  they  had  the 
light  of  the  lamp  in  their  eyes. 

"I  am  overwhelmed,"  the  colonel  confessed. 

He  looked  it.  He  was  flabby.  Shriveled  would  be 
the  better  word.  Ten  years  had  been  added  to  his 
age.  He  was  a  man  not  yet  recovered  from  a  deadly 
sickness.  His  voice  had  that  sort  of  feebleness  about 
it  that  betokens  a  lack  of  breath. 

"You  shouldn't  be  overwhelmed,"  Alvah  chided  as 
she  might  have  spoken  to  a  misguided  child. 

"Alvah!" 

"Yes,  uncle,  dear." 

"I  must  tell  you." 

"What?" 

"I  tried  to  keep  it  from  you." 

Alvah  put  down  her  lamp  on  one  of  the  upper  steps. 

"You  mean  about  there  being  no  more  money  left?" 
she  demanded  softly.  She  even  tried  to  put  a  playful 
note  into  the  words.  She  put  out  her  two  hands  and 
took  her  uncle's  hands  in  hers.  "I  know.  I  knew  it 
the  moment  I  saw  the  sign  you  put  out.  I  was  merely 
a  little  slow  to  believe." 

"It  is  all  gone." 

"I  can  work,  earn  enough  for  both  of  us." 

"The  drink  was  my  ruination." 


128  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"And  then,"  Alvah  hurried  on,  still  with  that  as 
sumption  of  consoling1  lightness — "and  then,  the  sign 
did  serve  a  good  purpose." 

"I  muddled  on,  expecting  the  lightning  somehow  to 
strike/' 

"And  didn't  it?"  Alvah  drew  her  uncle  down  to  a 
place  on  the  steps.  She  seated  herself  at  his  feet.  She 
smiled  up  into  his  face  wistfully.  "What  better  good 
fortune  could  have  befallen  us  than  to  have  Mr.  Davies 
come  when  he  did?  We'll  put  out  the  sign  again." 

The  old  man  awoke  from  his  depression. 

"Mr.  Davies !     God  bless  the  boy !" 

Davies,  standing  on  the  steps  across  the  hall,  felt  a 
little  creep  of  goose-flesh  on  his  body.  It  was  as  if 
some  one  had  tickled  him.  He  cursed  himself — without 
the  use  of  words — for  being  where  he  was.  He  wanted 
to  speak,  but  he  couldn't  speak.  It  was  impossible  for 
him  to  move. 

"Could  we  want  a  better  lodger?" 

"He  was  a  friend  to  me.  He  was  a  son.  But  now 
he'll  be  leaving  us.  It  is  only  right  that  he  should. 
It  is  what  I  should  advise  him  to  do.  He  was  a  son 
to  me,  and  I  have  driven  him  away." 

"Nonsense!  Do  you  think  that  he's  the  sort  who 
runs  away?" 

"No;  he's  as  brave  as  a  lion." 

"What  then?" 

"He  is  a  gentleman.    I  have  disgraced  him." 

"He  knows  you're  sorry.  There's  no  disgrace. 
Fight  on!  Isn't  that  the  motto  you've  been  following 
all  these  years  you've  been  here  in  St.  Clair  trying  to 


BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  129 

settle  up  Uncle  Abner's  estate?  Haven't  you  told  me 
that  that  was  what  the  Welsh — what  the  Cymry — did 
under  Rhodri  Mawr  ? — and  what  Stonewall  Jackson  did 
during  the  'seven  days'  ?  Don't  you  suppose — don't  you 
suppose,"  she  demanded,  while  her  voice  fell  to  little 
more  than  a  thrilling  whisper,  "that  there's  a  Higher 
Power  that  knows  all  about  your  needs  ?  Who  can  tell 
but  that  it  was  that  Higher  Power  who  sent  Mr. 
Davies  here." 

Da  vies  heard  all  this.  And  he  had  the  time  to 
meditate  it,  too.  For  there  was  a  long  silence,  and  in 
this  the  girl's  words  reechoed. 

"Aye !  He  came  as  one  sent  by  the  Lord.  To-night 
I  stood  at  Armageddon,  and  it  was  as  if  I  had  been 
among  the  spirits  of  devils,  and  they  were  gathered 
to  the  battle  of  God  Almighty,  His  day.  And  Richard 
came  to  me,  Alvah — came  to  me  like  one  of  the  seven 
angels  bearing  the  vials  of  the  wrath  of  God." 

The  colonel  was  running  into  a  mystic  mood. 

"He  taught  them  a  lesson,"  said  Alvah.  "It  was 
a  lesson  they  needed.  It  was  a  lesson  that  they'll  never 
forget." 

"God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way.  I  little  thought, 
when  I  saw  Mr.  Davies  this  morning,  that — no,  I  did 
know  it.  Something  told  me  the  moment  that  I  saw 
his  face  that  here  was  a  friend,  that  here  was  some  one 
destined  to  play  a  part  in  the  lives  perhaps  of  both 
of  us.  What  is  that  the  Good  Book  says?  'Be  not 
forgetful  to  entertain  strangers' — it  all  comes  back  to 
me — 'for  thereby  some  have  entertained  angels  un- 


ISO  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Again  the  silence  settled  down.  Again  Davies  found 
liimself  as  in  a  state  of  suspended  animation.  He  felt 
as  a  spirit  might  feel  when  hovering  over  the  dead  body 
that  had  belonged  to  it  during  the  earthly  incarnation. 

There  was  one  choked  voice  speaking  from  the  si 
lence:  "They've  got  me  wrong!" 

But  there  was  another  voice,  small  and  clear  :    "Why 


Why  not  be  the  thing  they  were  believing  him  to 
It  was  as  if  he  stood  on  the  edge  of  a  measureless 
gulf  and  contemplated  the  possibility  of  flight. 

"Did  you  notice,"  the  girl  asked,  "how  they  were  all 
afraid  to  move  or  speak  as  we  went  away?"  It  was  a 
mere  whisper,  a  question  not  calling  for  an  answer. 
""They  were  afraid." 

The  colonel  had  dropped  his  head  forward  and  rested 
it  in  his  hands.  The  girl  did  not  disturb  his  reflection. 
She  sat  motionless  and  looked  off  into  the  shadows. 
The  lamplight  shone  down  on  the  two  of  them  and 
made  a  picture  that  slowly  burned  itself  into  Richard 
Davies's  memory.  What  was  he  that  he  should  be 
treated  to  a  picture  like  this?  What  right  had  he 
to  look  at  it? 

He  stood  there,  flattened  against  the  wall,  and  he 
"was  like  some  one  or  some  thing  that  has  been  anni 
hilated. 

Who  was  this  they  had  talked  about?  It  couldn't 
3be  himself,  although  they  had  used  his  name  ;  and  this 
Ho  mere  sobriquet  of  the  streets,  either,  but  the  name 
Kis  father  had  borne  before  him. 

He  looked  back  on  his  immediate  past,  but  the  one 


BOUND  HAND  AND  FOOT  131 

big  fact  that  stuck  out  of  it — like  a  peak  from  a  cloud 
— was  the  girl's  hand  on  his  arm.  She  had  shown  then 
the  sort  of  faith  that  she  had  in  him.  It  wasn't  the  old 
Chick  whose  arm  she  had  taken.  It  was  the  arm 
of  some  one  named  Mr.  Richard  Davies.  Yet,  who  was 
this  Mr.  Richard  Davies  ? 

"Me!" 

"JVo;  it  cMt  you." 

"But  it  will  be." 

For,  as  yet,  he  was  still  annihilated  in  every  respect 
except  that  of  his  fluttering,  disrupted  thought.  His 
mouth  was  open. 

Then  the  colonel  straightened  up.  He  spoke  to  the 
girl,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her.  He  also  peered  off 
into  the  shadows. 

"Alvah,  you  are  right.  Altogether  right.  But  most 
right  in  keeping  your  faith  in  the  Power  that  sent  us 
this  friend  in  need.  The  Lord  was  watching  over  me, 
even  while  I  was  writing  that  card.  It  was  He  who 
brought  Mr.  Davies  to  our  door." 

The  girl  put  out  her  hand  and  caressed  his  face. 
As  the  colonel  slowly  turned  his  head  and  looked  at 
her,  Davies  could  see  the  grief  and  contrition  in  the 
old  man's  eyes.  It  recalled  the  look  he  had  seen  in  the 
face  of  old  Ezra  Wood,  and  it  summoned  to  his  own 
heart  the  same  vague  hunger — the  same  white  awe — 
that  had  been  there  that  night  in  the  Boone  House. 

"Alvah,"  the  colonel  said,  "let's  you  and  me — get 
down  on  our  knees — here  and  now — and  thank  Him 
for  sending  us  such  a  friend  and  gentleman — as  Mr. 
Davies." 


CHAPTER  XX 

PAETNERS 

DA  VIES  fled. 

He  went  up  the  stairs  taking  his  suit-case  with  him. 
But  he  went  like  a  ghost,  making  no  more  noise  than 
a  shadow.  Perhaps  he  wouldn't  have  cared  so  very 
much  if  he  had  made  a  noise.  There  are  crises  in  the 
lives  of  every  one  when  the  ordinary  conventions — and 
even  the  ordinary  decencies,  so  called — count  for  noth 
ing.  And  this  was  one  of  them. 

He  reached  the  room  he  had  deserted  only  a  few 
minutes  before.  He  went  in.  He  closed  the  door 
behind  him.  He  dropped  his  suit-case  on  the  floor. 
He  wilted  back  against  the  door  and  stood  there,  men 
tally  haggard  if  not  physically  haggard,  and  stared  un- 
seeingly  into  the  gloom. 

But  he  was  not  altogether  bereft  of  vision. 

Only  what  he  saw  was  the  series  of  pictures  he  had 
brought  back  with  him  from  the  hall,  chiefly  the  last 
picture  of  all,  wherein  an  old  man  and  a  young  girl 
were  kneeling  side  by  side  humbly  thanking  God  for 
sending  them  such  a  friend  as  Mr.  Richard  Davies. 

By  and  by,  Davies  recovered  possession  of  himself 
to  such  an  extent  that  he  picked  up  his  suit-case  and 
thrust  it  back  into  the  place  from  which  he  had  taken 

132 


PARTNERS  133 

it.  He  relighted  the  lamp.  Several  times  he  paced  the 
length  of  the  room.  He  stepped  over  to  the  door, 
finally,  and  opened  it  wide.  It  was  not  long  before 
the  thing  happened  which  he  had  expected. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  side  of  the  door,  and  there 
was  the  voice  of  Colonel  Williams  asking  him  if  he  had 
not  yet  retired. 

"Come  in,"  Davies  invited. 

The  colonel  came  in.  He  said  something  about  the 
possible  desirability  of  extra  covers  for  the  bed,  the 
unseasonable  coolness  of  the  night.  Davies  smiled  upon 
him,  thrust  forward  the  single  chair  in  the  room,  which 
was  near  the  bed.  He  held  the  chair  while  the  colonel 
eased  his  weight  into  it.  Then  Davies  seated  himself 
on  the  bed. 

"The  covers  and  everything  are  all  right,  colonel. 
But  I'm  glad  you  came.  I  was  wanting  to  talk  to  you." 

For  the  first  time  since  the  colonel  had  entered  the 
room,  their  eyes  met  and  held. 

"Richard,  I  have  come  to  apologize." 

"No  apologies  are  needed — not  from  you." 

"As  one  gentleman  to  another " 

"Wait  a  minute,  colonel." 

Davies  was  still  smiling,  but  there  was  a  whiteness 
in  his  smile,  as  he  himself  could  feel.  What  he  could 
not  feel,  perhaps,  was  how  deeply  brilliant  his  dark 
eyes  burned  in  the  yellow  twilight  made  by  the  little 
lamp.  The  colonel,  looking  at  him,  must  have  had  a 
vision  of  mystic  warriors  on  Welsh  battle-fields.  But 
the  colonel  waited. 

"I've  got  to  tell  you  something,"  Davies  went  on. 


134.  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"My  parents  were  all  right.  I  believe  they  were.  I 
know  they  were.  See?  But  I've  spent  most  of  my  life 
among  grafters  and  thieves."  He  lurched  out  the  rest 
of  it  hurriedly.  "I  was  one  myself." 

The  old  colonel  wasn't  looking  at  him  any  longer. 
He  hadn't  shifted  his  eyes,  precisely.  It  was  rather 
a  change  of  focus.  The  colonel  was  looking,  mistily, 
through  him  and  beyond  him.  His  old  face — misty 
eyes,  droopy  nose,  white  and  monumental  mustache — 
had  become  a  portrait  of  earthly  wisdom.  It  was  a 
very  human  face,  humorous  and  sad.  The  colonel  had 
made  a  slight  gesture  with  his  hand.  Otherwise  he  did 
not  express  himself.  But  Davies  was  finding  it  easier 
to  go  on  than  he  may  have  expected. 

"It  was  the  easy  money  that  made  it  seem  so  good 
to  me,"  he  said.  "Easy  money,  even  when  I  was  a 
little  shaver  and  could  swipe  a  tool  or  something  from 
a  new  building  or  a  sidewalk  where  I  was  supposed  to 
be  collecting  firewood.  A  trip  to  John  the  Junkman, 
and  there  you  were !  And  there  were  two  or  three  times 
when  I  thought  that  I  was  going  straight,  but  it  was 
easy  money  that  always  switched  me  back — in  a  phony 
gambling-house — where  I  put  down  a  ten  and  saw  it 
turn  into  fifty,  and  I  left  the  fifty  and  saw  it  run  to 
a  thousand.  But  I  never  went  back.  I  was  always 
too  wise  for  that.  I  would  never  get  caught.  And  it 
was  like  that  when  I  brushed  up  against  a  young  swell 
in  the  Polo  Grounds  and  almost  everything  he  had 
dropped  right  out  of  his  pocket  into  mine.  Easy 
money !  Easy  money !" 

The  colonel  nodded  his  head  slowly  several  times,  and 


PARTNERS  135 

at  the  end  of  a  nod,  with  his  head  lowered,  he  kept  it 
that  way  and  remained  motionless. 

"Until  at  last,"  said  Davies,  "I  did  take  a  tumble 
to  what  it  all  meant  and  what  it  was  all  leading  to. 

"You  never  get  anything  for  nothing.  You've  got 
to  pay  the  price  for  everything  you  get.  I  saw  it 
right.  I  saw  it  whole. 

"And  if  I  didn't  want  to  pay  the  price  like  all  the 
other  thieves  and  grafters — or  almost  all — it  was  me 
for  the  country  where  I  could  work  it  out — some 
thing  of  what  I  owed — or  all  of  it,  even — square  my 
self — you  understand — out  here  in  the  country  where? 
the  decent  people  live,  and  you  don't  have  to  lock  your 
doors  at  night,  and  where  every  other  person  that  you 
meet  ain't  a  grafter  or  a  crook." 

"I  understand,"  the  colonel  murmured,  and  he  slowly 
tugged  at  his  silvery  mustache  as  a  preliminary  to  fur 
ther  expression  of  his  own.  "I  understand." 

"I  wanted  to  tell  you  this,"  Davies  continued,  hist 
voice  going  smaller.  "I  may  be  sticking  around  here 
for  a  while,  you  know,  just  to  see  how  things  turn  out. 
But  I  couldn't  do  it  and  let  you  folks  go  on  believing 
that  I  was  something  that  I  ain't." 

His  diminishing  voice  came  to  a  rather  abrupt  pause-* 
as  if  he  had  suddenly  discovered  that  he  had  said  every-, 
thing  that  he  had  to  say. 

The  colonel  was  looking  at  him  again — out  of  the? 
top  of  his  eyes. 

"I  understand,  Richard,"  the  colonel  announced., 
"I've  known  all  along  what  you  were.  What  you've: 


136  IP  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

been  telling  me  has  merely  confirmed  my  first  judgment 
of  you." 

"You  knew " 

The  colonel  slowly  reached  for  something  that  made 
a  weight  in  the  tail-pocket  of  his  coat.  It  was  some 
thing  that  did  not  come  easily.  It  required  consider 
able  time  and  effort  to  extract  it.  When  it  did  come, 
it  revealed  itself  as  the  colonel's  flask.  There  was  still 
a  finger  or  so  of  whisky  in  it.  The  colonel  held  the 
flask  up  where  it  would  catch  the  light.  He  slowly 
rocked  the  liquor  back  and  forth. 

There,  for  an  interval,  Davies  may  have  been  expect 
ing  the  colonel  to  pull  the  cork,  invite  him  again  to  take 
a  drink.  There  would  have  been  nothing  surprising 
about  such  an  action.  In  the  world  Davies  came  from 
this  was  the  usual  climax  to  an  emotional  passage. 

But  the  colonel,  still  with  the  flask  in  his  hand,  got 
thoughtfully  to  his  feet. 

" — knew  that  you  were  sent,"  he  murmured. 

He  trudged  over  to  one  of  the  shuttered  windows 
opening  on  the  garden.  He  pushed  a  shutter  open. 

Davies,  watching  him,  saw  the  colonel  uncork  the 
flask  and  empty  its  contents  into  the  outer  darkness. 
He  saw  the  old  man  remain  there,  apparently  absorbed 
in  thought  for  yet  a  moment  or  so  longer,  then  toss 
the  flask  away. 

A  midnight  funeral! 

The  flask  fell  into  a  bed  of  pansies  that  Alvah  Morley 
had  been  cultivating  down  there  ever  since  her  advent 
in  the  old  house.  The  pansies  grew  lush,  and  were  gen 
erous  with  their  flowers — purple  and  soft  and  faintly 


PARTNERS  137 

fragrant.  There  can  be  no  earthly  record  of  what 
the  pansies  thought  when  the  bottle  arrived  among 
them.  But  they  accepted  it  without  protest,  received 
it  tenderly — gladly,  one  would  be  tempted  to  believe 
— the  expiatory  sacrifice  of  some  fragile  human 
flower ! 

Pansies  for  thoughts ! 

The  colonel  remained  for  a  rather  long  time  at  the 
window,  letting  the  breeze  of  the  night  blow  in  upon 
him.  It  stirred  his  white  mustache  and  the  folds  of 
his  coat. 

When  he  turned,  there  was  a  different  look  in  his 
face.  His  expression  conveyed  an  appearance  of  en 
lightenment,  of  added  wisdom — a  wisdom  no  less  hu 
man  than  was  habitual  to  him,  but  not  quite  so  ter 
restrial  perhaps.  He  smiled  gently  at  the  youth  who 
was  watching  him. 

He  put  out  his  hand. 

Wondering  a  little,  yet  touched  with  understand 
ing,  thrilled  not  a  little  with  some  quiver  of  relief  that 
was  almost  joy,  Richard  Davies  got  up  and  seized  the 
colonel's  hand. 

"My  boy,"  said  the  colonel,  amy  boy " 

"I  was  afraid " 

"A  man  need  never  fear  any  one  but  himself." 

"I  couldn't  let  you  believe " 

"A  man  is  not  hurt  by  lies,  sir,  but  by  the  truth; 
and  the  truth  won't  hurt  him  when  he's  right.  God 
bless  you — and  good  night!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

"WELCOME  TO  OUR  CITY" 

THERE  may  have  been  something  in  that  aphorism  of 
the  colonel's  about  the  truth  being  salutary  so  long 
as  a  man  was  right. 

The  news  of  what  had  happened  at  the  hotel  the 
night  before  had  spread.  This  news  alone  would  have 
been  enough  to  make  Davies  a  person  of  note  in  St. 
Clair — one  to  be  considered  and  looked  up  to,  especially 
by  the  ladies  of  the  town;  and,  far  from  being  hurt 
by  the  inevitable  untruths  stitched  onto  the  fabric  of 
fact,  these  added  details  merely  increased  his  renown. 

But  Davies  wasn't  caring  very  much  what  people 
said,  either  one  way  or  the  other.  "A  man  is  injured 
not  by  lies,  sir,  but  by  the  truth !  And  the  truth  won't 
hurt  him  when  he's  right."  That  was  good  enough  for 
him.  And  he  prepared  to  set  forth  on  his  day's  work. 

So  did  Mrs.  Meckley. 

Mrs.  Meckley  had  gone  to  bed  late  and  had  risen 
early.  She  had  done  this  with  a  pleasant  conscious 
ness  of  duty.  Some  one  had  to  keep  St.  Clair  posted 
as  to  the  doings  across  the  street.  It  was  barely  nine 
o'clock  when  she  sallied  forth.  She  had  already  caught 
a  distant  glimpse  of  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Sanders,  trowel- 

138 


"WELCOME  TO  OUR  CITY"  139 

ing  bulbs  in  her  front  yard  a  hundred  yards  farther 
on  toward  the  center  of  town. 

"I  just  saw  that  young  man,"  Mrs.  Meckley  began. 

"Who?  The  one  that  kicked  up  the  rumpus  last 
night  at  the  hotel?"  Mrs.  Sanders  turned  to  the  black 
earth  and  scooped  out  another  bulb. 

"What  say?" 

"Thought  everybody  in  town  knew  about  it  by  this 
time." 

"I  just  saw  him  saying  good-by,"  Mrs.  Meckley  per 
sisted  weakly. 

"Better  say  good-by.  I  reckon  he's  about  done  his 
share." 

"You  mean  flirting " 

"Serves  *em  right,  guzzlin'   an'  smokin'!" 

Mrs.  Meckley  thought  she  saw  a  lead.  She  dropped 
her  voice,  narrowed  her  eyes. 

"There  was  a  light  in  his  window  till  after  midnight," 
she  tempted. 

But  Mrs.  Sanders  hadn't  wasted  all  her  ammuni 
tion,  not  by  a  jugful.  She  gathered  up  her  bulbs 
in  a  small  box,  made  a  straining  effort,  and  got  to  her 
feet. 

"I'm  talkin'  about  Deacon  Crane  and  County  Com 
missioner  Miller  gettin*  their  faces  smacked,  and  that 
little  squirt  of  an  Ed  Hall — I  should  think  his  mother 
would  go  out  with  a  new  silk  dress  on  every  week — 
gettin'  his  lip  split;  not  to  speak  of  the  riffraff  that 
usually  does  hang  around  the  saloon,  all  gettin'  a 
tannin'." 

"Milly  Sanders!" 


140  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Learn  'em  a  lesson.  They  ought  to  'a'  knowed  he 
was  the  colonel's  adopted  son." 

It  wasn't  long  before  Mrs.  Meckley  discovered  that 
she  was  in  a  hurry — that  she  was  already  late,  in 
fact — on  an  errand  that  would  take  her  further  on 
her  way.  Even  so,  she  wasn't  quick  enough.  She 
saw  that  she  was  behind  her  schedule  the  moment  her 
eyes  lit  on  the  faces  of  the  Beverly  sisters.  They 
also  had  the  news. 

Only,  this  time,  Mrs.  Meckley  wasn't  unprepared. 
She  whispered  something  into  the  somewhat  wilted  ears 
of  the  sisters. 

"But  he  hasn't  ever  been  married,"  said  the  elder 
Miss  Beverly. 

"That's  what  I'm  telling  you,"  said  Mrs.  Meckley, 
and  she  whispered  again.  "And  I  think  it's  just  scan 
dalous,  the  old  reprobate  aiming  to  marry  off  the  girl 
like  this  to  his  own  son.  Well,  good-by,  both  of  you. 
I  got  to  be  trotting  along." 

She  trotted,  and  the  Beverly  sisters  decided  that 
they  would  go  out  in  the  back  garden  to  see  whether 
Mrs.  Mintner  was  still  at  her  curtain  frames. 

"I  don't  see  why  she  persists  in  calling  the  judge 
a  reprobate,"  said  the  younger  Miss  Beverly  with  a 
touch  of  malice. 

"No,"  said  the  elder,  with  perfect  understanding. 
"She's  been  setting  her  cap  for  Colonel  Williams  long 
enough,  goodness  knows !" 

"And  he  never  would  look  at  her,"  said  the  younger 
Miss  Beverly,  pinking  up. 

Meantime,  Mr.  Richard  Davies,  with  that  aphorism 


"WELCOME  TO  OUR  CITY"  141 

of  the  colonel's  in  mind  and  conscious  that  he  had  come 
off  first  best  in  the  proceedings  of  the  night  before 
whatever  might  be  said  about  it,  started  out  to  see 
what  sort  of  an  impression  he  could  make  on  the  town 
as  a  soap-agent.  He  remembered  the  instructions  that 
had  been  handed  to  him  on  a  printed  card  at  the  soap- 
headquarters  in  Greenwich  Street: 

Work  every  house. 

If  they  look  poor,  remember  the  poor  are  easy. 

If  they  look  rich,  tell  them  so,  and  they'll  fall. 

He  had  his  suit-case  with  the  half-hundred  cakes  in 
it,  also  a  deck  of  business-cards.  His  first  try  was  the 
house  right  across  the  street — a  little  house  back  of  a 
high  hedge;  but  no  one  was  home  and  he  had  to  leave 
a  card. 

The  next  house  he  tried  was  up  the  street,  where  a 
woman  was  digging  bulbs. 

"Good  morning,"  he  said.  "Harvesting  your 
onions?" 

The  woman  looked  up  from  her  work,  recognized  him 
as  the  town's  latest  arrival.  She  smiled  as  she  said: 
"These  were  early  tulips." 

"I  know  you  don't  need  it,"  he  said  amiably;  "but 
I'm  introducing  the  new  Saporino  line  of  Mexican  mys 
tery  soaps.  The  name  sounds  rather  bunk ;  but  they 
really  are  good  soaps ;  use  them  myself." 

He  gave  Mrs.  Sanders  the  help  of  his  hand.  She  was 
old  enough  to  compliment  him  frankly: 

"You're  a  good  advertisement." 

Any  one  would  have  been  justified  in  saying  as  much. 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

He  was  clean,  immaculate,  even  though  he  was  a  little 
shabby. 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  confessed,  "I  love  this  soap  so 
much  I  feel  as  if  I  was  doing  folks  a  favor  by  letting 
them  have  it — twenty-five  a  cake  and  better  than  a 
novel  or  a  play." 

"He  ain't  the  bruiser  they  were  makin'  him  out  to 
be,"  said  Mrs.  Sanders,  looking  after  him. 

He  had  made  the  sale. 

He  could  have  cleaned  out  his  entire  stock  to  the 
Beverly  sisters.  He  knew  that  he  could,  the  moment 
that  they  pounced  upon  him  with  their  eyes.  It  was 
evident  that  he  had  been  well  advertised.  The  ruction 
at  the  hotel  had  been  a  good  thing  after  all. 

The  elder  of  the  two  addressed  him  from  the  porch : 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Williams." 

"What's  that?" 

"Aren't  you  Colonel  Williams's— er " 

Davies  got  a  portion  of  her  meaning. 

"No  relation,"  he  smiled.  "I  wish  I  was.  I'm  intro 
ducing  the  Saporino  line " 

And  he  recited  his  familiar  patter. 

"Isn't  it  rather  expensive?" 

"Use  ordinary  soap  to  get  the  rough  dirt  off,  al 
though  we  recommend  our  customers  to  use  the  Sapo 
rino  line  exclusively.  Ah,  go  on,  and  take  a  dozen  cakes. 
Two  bits  per !  I  could  tell  right  away  that  you  ladies 
had  been  to  New  York  and  knew  all  about  the  Sapo 
rino  line " 

With  Mrs.  Meckley  as  an  advance  agent,  his  fame 
was  reaching  into  quarters  where  it  hadn't  reached 


"WELCOME  TO  OUR  CITY"  143 

before.  But  Davies  was  cautious.  It  was  almost  too 
good  to  be  true,  this  glad-hand  welcome  he  was  get 
ting  wherever  he  went.  He  scented  something  in  the 
air.  Nor  was  he  very  long  in  finding  out  that  he  was 
right,  and  what  the  danger  was. 

He  had  just  sold  his  last  cake  of  soap  when  he  saw  a 
familiar  figure  sauntering  along  the  maple-shaded 
street.  It  was  that  tough  young  farmer  who  had 
threatened  to  give  Gus  a  wallop  on  his  own  account  the 
night  before. 

Davies  was  glad  to  see  him.  He  was  tired  of  talk 
ing  to  women.  He  strolled  up  to  meet  him. 

"Hello,"  he  said. 

"Hello,"  and  the  young  farmer,  with  a  shrewd  glance, 
backed  up  to  lean  against  the  fence. 

"Come  and  have  a  cigar  with  me,"  Davies  invited. 

"Don't  care  if  I  do." 

There  was  a  small  cigar  and  candy  store  across  the 
street. 

"Give  us  a  couple  of  your  best  cigars,"  said  Davies 
to  the  alert  but  unshaven  young  merchant  behind  the 
counter. 

"Nickel  straight,"  said  the  merchant,  taking  two 
cigars  from  a  box  in  the  glass  case. 

And  his  eyes  were  as  keen  as  a  hawk's  until  he  had 
his  dime. 

"Here  comes  the  bus  for  Pleas antville,"  the  farmer 
remarked  softly  and  casually  when  they  were  outside 
again. 

"Let  her  come,"  said  Davies,  only  mildly  interested. 
"I  guess  this  town  will  hold  me  for  a  while." 


144  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

The  other  snorted  softly. 

"It'll  hold  you  longer'n  you  think,  if  you  don't 
watch  out." 

"On  account  of  what  happened  at  the  hotel?" 

"That's  what  started  it.  But  nobody  wants  nothing 
done  about  that  for  fear  of  gettin'  drug  into  court 
themselves,  like  Miss  Morley  said.  But  they've  got  the 
constable  primed  up  to  run  you  in  for  sellin'  without  a 
license." 

He  shot  a  swift  glance  up  the  street  toward  the 
center  of  town.  His  voice  speeded  up  a  notch. 

"And  here  he  comes  now !" 


CHAPTER  XXII 


His  first  instinct  was  to  run  away.  Without  looking 
particularly  he  could  see  that  his  chances  for  flight 
were  good.  The  street  was  loosely  gardened  to  left  and 
right.  The  open  country  at  no  place  was  far  away 
• — meadows,  flowing  cornfields,  patches  of  wood.  His 
suit-case  was  empty.  There  would  be  no  great  loss 
if  he  abandoned  it.  He  had  always  hated  the  pros 
pect  of  jail.  Now,  with  a  splurge  of  feeling,  he  knew 
that  he  was  hating  it  more  than  ever — even  though 
it  should  mean  but  a  day  or  two — on  such  a  feeble 
charge  as  peddling  soap  without  a  license. 

His  mind  was  working  fast. 

The  constable,  moreover,  was  taking  his  time. 

Davies  flashingly  reviewed  his  previous  life,  the 
change  that  had  come  into  it — and  that  change  par 
ticularly  which  he  had  experienced  since  his  arrival 
at  Flowery  Harbor. 

It  helped  him  to  check  his  instinct  to  run.  It  helped 
him  to  check  that  other  instinct,  which  was  to  bluff 
— play  the  indignant,  assume  the  role  of  injured  in 
nocence,  threaten  reprisals  in  a  political  way. 

"What  are  ybu  going  to  do  about  it?"  the  young 
farmer  asked. 

145 


146  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Square  myself,"  Davies  replied.  "So  long! 
Thanks!" 

Davies  met  the  constable  at  the  side  of  a  low  fence 
fringing  a  garden.  Beyond  the  garden  was  a  lane. 
There  was  another  lane  just  across  the  way,  and  this 
ran  off  down  a  slope  between  other  garden  fences 
to  a  willowy  hollow.  There  was  still  a  good  chance 
to  get  away,  but  all  the  time  Davies  was  getting  a 
better  grip  on  himself. 

He  and  the  man  of  the  law  surveyed  each  other. 

The  constable  was  a  man  of  middle  age — a  trifle  fat, 
a  trifle  dirty,  but  keen-eyed  and  efficient.  He  was 
chewing  tobacco.  He  slowly  masticated.  He  spat  to 
one  side.  His  eyes  came  back  to  Davies's  eyes. 

"I  reckon,"  he  said,  without  other  preliminaries, 
"you  know  who  I  am." 

"You're  the  constable." 

The  other  squinted  down  at  a  nickel-plated  badge  on 
the  lapel  of  his  coat.  He  burnished  it  with  his  sleeve. 

"And  you're  the  young  feller,"  he  said,  as  if  an 
nouncing  a  happy  surprise,  "who's  been  sellin'  inside 
the  corporate  limits  without  a  license.  I  guess  I'll 
have  to  ask  you  to  step  along  with  me." 

"I'm  ready." 

"You  seem  to  take  it  sort  of  cool." 

"Why  shouldn't  I?  I  haven't  been  doing  anything 
wrong.  I  didn't  know  I  had  to  have  a  license." 

"Ignorance  of  the  law  ain't  no  defense,"  the  con 
stable  recited. 

"I'm  willing  to  get  a  license." 


JUSTICE:  THAT'S  ALL  147 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  the  constable,  with  a  flash  of 
malice,  "now  that  the  crime  has  been  committed.'* 

The  constable  was  still  leisurely.  There  was  an  air 
about  him  of  preoccupation,  of  not  having  said  all  that 
he  had  to  say.  And  Davies  noticed  this. 

"What  do  you  think  I'd  better  do  about  it?" 

"That's  for  the  squire  to  say,  although  he  do  gen 
erally  follow  my  recommend." 

"And  what's  that?" 

"The  lock-up."  He  snapped  out  the  words.  "It 
largely  depends  on  what  I  say — and  on  what  you  might 
call  public  sentiment." 

"With  no  chance  to  get  off  with  a  fine?" 

The  constable  slanted  a  meaning  look  at  Davies. 
He  casually  glanced  up  and  down  the  all  but  deserted 
street. 

"Now  you're  beginning  to  say  somethin',"  he  mused. 

Again  he  shot  a  look  at  Davies. 

"Well,  come  along,"  he  said.  "We'll  be  gettin'  off 
to  the  lock-up." 

"Have  a  cigar,"  said  Davies. 

"Don't  mind  if  I  do." 

He  took  the  cigar  that  the  prisoner  offered  and  bit 
the  end  from  it.  Davies  held  a  match  for  him. 

"Do  you  mean  that  I  might  get  off  all  right  with  a 
fine?" 

"How  much  money  you  got?" 

"I  don't  know;  but  it  ought  to  be  enough." 

The  constable  lowered  his  voice,  spoke  a  little  more 
quickly  than  he  had  spoken  hitherto. 

"I  ain't  one  of  these  here  officers  that  won't  listen 


148  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

to  reason,"  he  averred  with  a  touch  of  nervous  eager 
ness.  "I'm  broad-minded  enough,  if  it  comes  to  that. 
Got  to  be,  b'  heck!  I  got  a  family."  He  wasn't  al 
together  hardened.  He  appeared  to  be  a  little  discon 
certed.  He  ran  on,  with  a  trace  of  nervous  laughter. 
"Some  folks  went  through  here  just  the  other  day, 
bustin'  the  speed-limits  in  one  of  these  here  big  purple 
cars,  and  they'd  been  goin'  on  like  that  yet  if  I  hadn't 
nabbed  them,  and  the  feller  who  was  steerin',  he  says  to 
me,  just  like  that,  says  he:  'Be  you  one  of  these  here 
officers  that  won't  listen  to  reason?'  'How  so?'  says 
I.  'Why,*  says  he,  'if  you  ain't,'  says  he,  'mebbe  you'll 
let  me  pay  the  fine  right  here  and  now,'  says  he." 

"How  much  was  the  fine?"  Davies  inquired. 

"In  his  particular  case,  it  was  a  five-dollar  bill." 

"Can't  I  pay  my  fine  right  here?" 

"Not  right  here,"  the  constable  whispered,  "unless 
you're  mighty  keerful  about  it." 

"I'll  be  careful." 

Davies  was  as  good  as  his  word.  He  cast  a  cautious 
look  about  him.  He  turned  his  face  to  the  fence  and 
deftly  drew  his  billfold.  He  counted  out  five  one-dollar 
bills.  But  the  constable  was  not  so  cautious.  At  any 
rate,  the  sight  of  the  stranger's  money  seemed  to  in 
terest  him  more  than  any  chance  of  some  one  discover 
ing  his  method  of  executing  the  law.  His  keen  eyes 
counted  the  five  bills  as  Davies  counted  them,  and  also 
took  note  of  all  the  other  money  in  the  fold. 

"I  reckon,"  he  breathed,  "that  your  fine  will  be  just 
twice  that  much." 

"You  ought  to  go  to  some  bigger  town,"  said  Davies 


JUSTICE:  THAT'S  ALL  149 

briefly,  after  the  transfer  had  been  made.  But  he  kept 
his  temper.  "How  do  I  know  that  they  won't  make 
trouble  for  me  when  I  go  to  get  my  license  even  now?" 

The  constable  was  in  high  good  humor. 

"I  guess  you  needn't  worry  about  that,"  he  said. 
"Just  let  on  like  nothings  happened.  Keep  your  mouth 
shut,  and  nothin's  goin'  to  hurt  you.  Catch  the  four 
seventeen." 

"But  I  want  to  be  all  on  the  square,"  said  Davies. 
"I  expect  to  stay  here  a  while.  I'm  not  going  out  on 
the  four  seventeen." 

"Oh,  you're  not!" 

"You've  let  your  cigar  go  out,"  said  Davies.  He 
lit  a  fresh  match.  "And  you've  let  some  ashes  fall  on 
your  coat."  He  brushed  the  constable's  collar  lightly 
while  that  officer  was  busy  with  the  match  and  the  gift 
cigar.  "Can't  you  go  around  to  the  town  hall  with 
me  and  tell  them  there  that  I'm  all  right?" 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  officer;  "but  it's  just  about  my 
dinner-time." 

They  sauntered  along  together  for  perhaps  a  dis 
tance  of  fifty  paces,  and  all  this  time  there  was  a  sort 
of  buzzing  in  Davies's  brain.  Then,  what  was  that 
the  colonel  had  said  about  men  being  hurt  by  the  truth, 
unless  they  happened  to  be  right?  Davies  eyed  the 
constable.  . 

"I  thought,"  he  said  carelessly,  "that  you  had  a 
badge." 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY 

"Miss  TESSIE,"  said  the  constable,  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  later,  "this  young1  man's  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr. 
Richard  Davies,  recently  of  New  York,  and  he  wants 
a  license  to  sell  goods  in  St.  Clair.  I  reckon  you  can  fix 
him  out  all  right." 

"Indeed  I  can,'*  said  Miss  Tessie. 

She  was  a  blond  creature  of  a  sort  which  can  be 
adequately  described  only  by  the  use  of  the  phrase 
"magnificently  developed."  At  the  dinner  hour — midday 
in  St.  Clair — she  was  about  the  only  one  left  in  the 
town  hall,  and,  with  nothing  else  to  do,  she  had  re 
marked  the  advent  of  the  constable  and  the  dark-eyed 
stranger  with  a  flutter  of  interest. 

"Thanks,"  said  Davies.  He  had  turned  to  the  con 
stable  and  thrust  out  his  hand. 

As  the  constable's  hand  took  Davies's,  the  officer  felt 
the  smooth  surface  of  his  lost  badge  against  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  He  mastered  his  astonishment  to  some 
extent. 

"I  told  you  you'd  find  your  badge  as  soon  as  you'd 
square  me  here  in  the  town  hall,"  Davies  whispered. 
"Are  you  and  me  going  to  be  friends  from  now  on?" 

Perhaps  the  constable  understood  precisely  what  had 

150 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY  151 

happened.  Possibly  he  guessed  that  this  stranger  had 
deftly  relieved  him  of  his  badge  back  there  in  the  street 
when  presumably  brushing  the  ashes  from  his  coat. 
But  it  isn't  likely.  It  didn't  matter  very  much.  The 
man  of  the  law  had  his  ten  dollars  in  his  pocket  and 
now  he  had  his  badge  as  well.  He  was  in  a  softened 
mood.  He  looked  at  the  New  Yorker,  and  over  his  face 
came  the  expression  of  an  upright  friend. 

"Count  on  me,"  said  the  constable.  "I  ain't  afraid 
of  these  local  politicians.  I've  just  been  elected,  and 
my  job's  still  got  two  years  to  run."  The  constable 
again  addressed  himself  to  the  young  lady  beyond  the 
office  railing.  "I'll  leave  you  young  folks  together," 
he  declared. 

Davies's  own  attention  had  become  riveted  on  Miss 
Tessie.  He  believed,  and  it  may  have  been  true,  that 
he  had  never  seen  any  creature  more  beautiful.  Her 
smile  was  so  frank  and  inviting,  moreover,  that  he 
made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  admiration. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that?"  she  softly  in 
quired. 

"Can  you  blame  me?"  he  breathed.  "I  could  keep 
right  on  looking  at  you  forever,  Miss  Tessie." 

"My  name  is  Miss  Wingate,  thank  you." 

"You  could  call  me  Sweeny,  if  you  wanted  to." 

"I  thought  Mr.  Winch  said  you  were  Mr.  Richard 
Davies." 

"Dick,  for  short." 

"I  think  you're  awful,"  she  said,  "to  tease  a  poor, 
innocent,  little  country  girl  like  that." 


152  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Rosy  cheeks  and  a  shiny  eye,"  Davies  quoted. 

"Shiny  nose,  you  mean,"  she  countered. 

She  had  a  little  purse  with  a  mirror  in  the  top  of 
it,  and  she  looked  at  herself  in  this.  Quite  unabashed, 
she  dusted  her  nose  with  a  small  powder-puff. 

"Anyway,"  he  said,  "I'm  glad  to  meet  you." 

The  noon-hour  was  quiet  in  St.  Clair — no  traffic 
to  speak  of  in  the  several  streets,  every  one  gone  home 
to  dinner  with  the  exception  of  a  few  loafers  here  and 
there,  a  few  somnolent  clerks  in  the  stores,  Miss  Tessie 
Wingate  the  sole  tenant  of  the  town  hall  against  such 
time  as  Simp  Fisher,  the  village  auditor,  should  come 
back  chewing  his  tooth-pick.  The  girl  had  surren 
dered  her  smooth  pink  fingers  to  Davies's  hand  and 
allowed  them  to  linger  there. 

For  an  eternal  moment  Davies  had  a  rather  giddy 
feeling  that  this  was  New  York,  and  that  a  spell  had 
fallen  upon  the  world,  and  that  he  and  this  girl  were 
the  only  ones  left  awake  in  it.  Her  voice  came  to  him 
on  an  accompaniment  of  bird-music;  it  was  like  a  vo 
calization  of  the  warm  and  fragrant  lazy  air  that 
drifted  in  through  the  open  windows. 

"What  can  I  be  thinking  of,  and  you  such  a  terrible 
person !" 

"Why,  terrible?" 

"The  way  you  cleaned  out  the  hotel  barroom,  last 
night." 

"So  you  know  about  it,  too?" 

"Of  course  I  do.     The  whole  town  knows  about  it." 

"I'm  sorry." 

"Sorry !     I  think  it's  wonderful." 


THE  QUALITY  OF  MERCY  15* 

She  engulfed  him  in  a  look  from  her  large,  blue  eyes. 

"You're  the  wonderful  thing,"  he  asserted  sincerely. 

"How  many  other  girls  have  you  told  that  to?" 

"None." 

"I've  always  been  just  dying  to  go  to  New  York." 

"Don't." 

"It  must  be  awfully  exciting." 

"Just  like  it  is  for  a  chicken  getting  the  ax." 

Miss   Tessie  jerked  her  hand   away   suddenly. 

A  tall  young  man,  exceedingly  thin,  lightly  dressed, 
his  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  as  if  to  relieve 
the  pressure  on  his  bulging  and  scantily  thatched  fore 
head,  strolled  into  the  room  with  an  air  of  belonging 
there.  He  had  a  thin  mustache,  and  this  only  partly 
concealed  the  difficult  trick  he  was  performing  of  turn 
ing  a  toothpick,  end  over  end,  with  lips  and  tongue 
unaided  by  his  hands. 

He  had  no  look  for  the  others  there  as  he  slouched 
through  the  gate  in  the  railing,  nor  did  Miss  Wingate 
have  more  than  a  glance  for  him.  He  slumped  into  a 
chair  beside  a  desk,  propped  up  his  feet  and  began  to 
file  his  nails. 

Miss  Wingate  busied  herself  with  the  stamped  paper 
Davies  had  come  to  get  and  then  handed  it  over  to 
him  with  a  languishing  smile. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  he  whispered. 

The  girl  shrugged  and  sniffed.     But  she  called  out: 

"Oh,  Simp!  I'd  like  to  have  you  meet  Mr.  Davies, 
the  gentleman  from  New  York." 

Simp  lowered  his  feet.  He  pocketed  his  knife.  He 
took  his  tooth-pick  from  his  mouth  and  examined  it 


154  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

before  tossing  it  away.  He  got  up  and  came  forward 
with  a  certain  regretfulness. 

It  was  not  until  then  that  Davies  recognized  him. 

It  was  Simp's  chin  that  had  got  in  the  way  of  his 
elbow  the  night  before  at  the  tavern  door. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do?"  said  Mr.  Fisher  languidly, 
and  he  put  out  a  limp  hand. 

"No  hard  feelings,"  said  Davies. 

The  other  did  not  answer.  He  permitted  a  vague 
smile  to  drift  across  his  features.  He  retired  to  his 
place  behind  the  desk. 

The  girl  made  a  slight  grimace. 

"He's  enthusiastic  like  a  dead  eel,"  Davies  com 
mented  softly.  He  responded  to  the  girl's  smile. 
"Good-by— Tessie!" 

"Good-by—Dick!" 

"We'll  see  each  other  again.'* 

She  waved  him  a  plump  and  shapely  palm  as  he 
passed  through  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

SMAI/L    VOICES 

HER  smile  went  with  him  out  into  the  street.  The 
town  was  no  longer  quite  what  it  was  before.  Something 
had  been  added  to  it — a  friendliness,  a  hue  of  tender 
ness.  It  was  something  that  at  once  emboldened  him 
and  yet  softened  him.  Suppose  he  went  over  to  the 
hotel  and  ate  his  dinner  there,  just  to  show  them  what 
sort  of  a  man  he  was !  But  a  milder  inspiration  pos 
sessed  him  as  he  was  about  to  pass  a  butcher-shop.  He 
went  in. 

"Give  me  a  couple  of  pounds  of  pork-chops,"  he 
ordered. 

Even  the  butcher  appeared  to  know  who  he  was. 
The  butcher  was  all  flustered  attention.  He  disap 
peared  into  his  ice-box.  He  cut  the  meat  with  nervous 
haste. 

"What  else?" 

"What  have  you  got?" 

"Potatoes." 

"Sure!" — and  he  indicated  one  of  the  measures  that 
the  man  held  up. 

The  meat,  the  potatoes,  the  butcher  himself — all 
these  also  had  become  the  notes  of  a  symphony  of  pink 
and  white.  Those  were  her  colors.  Tessie's !  Her 

155 


156  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

throat  and  her  nose  and  her  wrists  were  white.  Her 
lips  and  her  cheeks  and  her  finger-tips  were  pink.  Even 
her  dress  had  been  pink  and  white. 

"What  else?" 

"What  do  I  need?" 

"Maybe  some  lard." 

"All  right." 

"How  much?" 

"A  couple  of  pounds." 

It  was  sweet — this  preliminary  training  for  the  fam 
ily  life.  He  stowed  away  the  things  he  had  purchased 
in  his  now  empty  suit-case,  paid  his  bill  and  went  out 
once  more  into  the  shady  fragrance  of  the  maple-trees. 

The  noon  lull  still  lasted.  The  town  was  still. 
Overhead  was  a  sky  that  appeared  to  be  bluer  than  any 
sky  he  had  hitherto  seen.  And  there  were  a  few  white 
clouds  adrift  up  there,  just  like  the  clouds  that  Ezra 
Wood  had  mentioned — ships  to  bring  dreams  in  from 
distant  ports,  or  to  carry  other  dreams  away — away 
into  the  blue. 

In  the  stillness,  a  hen  in  some  neighboring  back  yard 
fluted  her  melancholy  intention  to  set ;  there  was  a  tiny 
squabble  of  sparrows  in  the  eaves  of  the  nearest  house ; 
there  came  the  faint  nasal  drone  of  a  woman's  voice, 
singing  some  old  song  to  the  time  of  a  recurrent  creak 
as  she  rocked  her  baby  to  sleep. 

Davies  stopped  where  he  was  and  breathed  deeply 
a  couple  of  times,  alert  yet  brooding. 

There  was  a  foundation-smell  of  sun-warmed  vegita- 
tion,  heavy  and  tepid  and  sweet;  but  over  this  was  a 
fabric  of  other  smells — of  new  milk,  of  fried  meat,  of 


SMALL  VOICES  1§T 

fresh  earth — which  made  no  less  an  appeal  to  his  in 
nermost  nature. 

And  then,  some  lurking  thought  unfolded  itself  and 
was  suddenly  in  full  flower. 

All  this  was  what  he  had  come  to  seek.  It  was  a 
homing  instinct  that  had  brought  him.  There  wa» 
something  in  all  this  that  was  native  to  him.  He  wasn't 
meant  for  Chatham  Square,  for  the  back  room  of  the 
Commodore,  for  the  roaring  Bowery,  for  the  cell-block 
or  the  hospital  bed. 

No  man  was. 

These  were  his  people — the  old  colonel  and  the  col 
onel's  niece,  and,  most  of  all,  Tessie — Tessie  Win- 
gate! 

He  stood  there  and  heard  a  huckster  in  some  distant 
part  of  the  village  wailing  unintelligibly  the  things  that 
he  had  for  sale ;  from  a  bit  of  woodland  beyond  a  field 
there  came  the  thud  of  an  ax  followed  by  a  rustling 
crunch  of  falling  branches ;  a  school-bell  softly  clanged. 
And  these  things  were  music  to  his  ears.  At  the  far 
end  of  the  street  he  saw  the  colonel  appear  at  his  gate 
and  peer  in  his  direction,  and  he  knew  that  the  colonel 
was  waiting  for  him. 

"We  took  the  liberty,"  said  the  colonel,  "of  holding 
dinner  for  you,  Richard." 

It  may  have  been  a  matter  of  mood,  but  it  seemed 
to  Davies  that  the  colonel  was  tremulous,  glad  almost 
beyond  words  to  see  him,  as  if  he  had  been  fearing  that 
the  guest  might  not  come  at  all. 

"I'm  sorry  I  kept  you  waiting,"  Davies  said.  *1 
stopped  to  buy  a  couple  of  things." 


158  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"We  thought  you'd  like  to  try  our  boiled  greens. 
It's  getting  a  little  late  for  dandelions,  but  the  poke 
and  the  purslane  are  in  their  prime." 

"Pork  chops,"  Davies  announced,  indicating  his  suit 
case. 

The  colonel  was  a  little  hard  of  hearing.  "I  don't 
know  whether  you've  ever  tried  sassafras  tea." 

"The  old  grip's  full  of  spuds." 

"If  you'd  like  to  go  to  your  room,  I'll  tell  Alvah 

"I  ought  to  see  her  myself.  I'm  afraid  this  lard 
will  run  away  on  me.'* 

"I  trust  you  met  no  further  unpleasantness." 

"Me !    I  met  some  of  the  finest  people  in  the  world." 

He  stopped.  Either  the  colonel  or  Alvah  had  once 
more  hung  the  "Room  to  Let"  sign  on  the  door-pull. 
Davies  looked  at  it.  An  impulse  stirred  within  him  and 
he  obeyed  it  without  pausing  to  question  the  meaning 
of  it.  He  walke4  up  the  steps  of  the  stoop.  He  took 
the  sign  from  its  place.  He  carefully  tore  it  into  four 
pieces,  put  the  pieces  into  his  pocket. 

The  colonel  was  just  back  of  him. 

"We  thought "  the  colonel  began. 

He  was  embarrassed  under  the  younger  man's  glance, 
although  Davies's  look  was  one  of  friendly  assurance 

"You're  not  going  to  need  that  sign  any  more." 

"Richard!" 

"I'm  here  to  stay." 

From  the  back  of  the  house  came  a  lilt  of  music : 

"Sail  on,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State." 


SMALL  VOICES  159 

He  and  the  colonel  entered  the  wide  front  door  of 
the  mansion  side  by  side,  and  there,  with  the  door 
closed  behind  them,  the  colonel  turned  and  put  his  hands 
on  Da,vies's  shoulders. 

"Richard,"  he  faltered. 

"Cheer  up,  colonel!" 

"What  have  you  done?" 

There  were  tears  in  the  old  gentleman's  eyes.  His 
jaw  sagged  a  little  under  his  ante-bellum  mustache. 

"You're  not  sore,  are  you,  colonel?" 

"You  are  even  as  Barnabas,"  said  the  colonel 
hoarsely;  "Barnabas,  the  son  of  consolation." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

FRIEND    EMERSON 

ALVAH  also  must  have  been  impressed  to  some  extent, 
but  she  had  a  care  about  how  she  showed  it.  A  deepen 
ing  of  the  light  in  her  eye,  a  trace  of  extra  color  about 
her  jaw  and  throat,  a  certain  restriction  and  stiff 
ness  of  movement  as  she  took  the  things  from  the  suit 
case — and  that  was  all. 

"If  you  care  to  wait  for  about  half  an  hour  longer," 
she  said,  "I  can  give  you  a  dinner  worth  waiting  for." 

"How  about  it,  Richard?" 

"Fine!" 

And  that  was  all,  for  the  present;  only,  before  very 
long,  Richard  heard  the  girl  singing  again.  The  words 
came  to  him,  remote,  yet  distinct,  from  the  kitchen : 

"Sail  on,  sail  on,  O  Ship  of  State; 
Sail  on,  O  Union,  strong  and  great. 
Humanity  with  all  its  fears, 
With  all  its  hopes  of  future  years, 
Is  hanging  breathless  on  thy  fate." 

The  words  and  music  and  the  voice  of  the  girl  com 
bined  to  strengthen  the  hitherto  unexpressed  yearning 
that  was  in  his  heart.  He  wished  he  had  the  power  of 
speech.  Not  his  kind  of  speech.  The  colonel's  kind. 
Or  her  kind — Tessie  Wingate's! 

160 


FRIEND  EMERSON  161 

He  strolled  into  that  room  that  the  colonel  had  told 
him  was  the  library,  and  he  saw  that  a  good  part  of  its 
walls  were  covered  with  books.  There  must  have  been 
a  thousand  of  them,  two  thousand,  a  dazzling  number. 
What  could  any  one  do  with  such  a  lot  of  books  as  these 
— especially  when  they  were  old,  as  most  of  these 
books  appeared  to  be,  with  nothing  in  them,  and  no 
body  but  a  junk-dealer  ready  to  make  an  offer  for 
them? 

The  presence  of  so  many  books  nevertheless  stirred 
his  reverence.  There  was  almost  something  about 
them  that  frightened  him. 

He  went  over  and  carefully  pulled  a  volume  from  its 
place. 

"Emerson's  Essays."  He  opened  it.  He  read: 
«  'Trust  thyself.'  "  " 

What  followed,  confused  him;  but  it  didn't  greatly 
matter.  It  was  as  if  he  had  asked  ah1  this  assembled 
wisdom  here,  as  represented  by  these  stacks  of  books, 
the  riddle  of  this  new  life  that  was  unfolding  before  him, 
and  that  a  clear  voice  had  given  him  answer. 

"I'm  on,  Emerson,"  he  said.     "  'Trust  thyself!'  " 

There  was  a  peculiar  fascination  in  this  access  to  wis 
dom.  What  wouldn't  he  know  if  he  could  read  these 
books  ? 

Through  the  silence  of  his  reverie  the  girl's  voice 
reached  him  again: 

"Our  hearts  and  hopes,  our  ways,  our  tears, 
Our  faith  triumphant  o'er  our  fears." 

With  the  book  still  in  his  hand  he  turned  to  find  the 
colonel  at  the  door.  The  colonel  was  in  his  shirt- 


162  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

sleeves,  but  he  carried  a  garment  over  his  arm,  and 
this  proved  to  be  a  coat. 

"I  wanted  to  honor  the  occasion,"  he  said — he  was 
a  trifle  breathless,  apparently  as  a  result  of  some  re 
cent  effort  and  also,  possibly,  on  account  of  a  touch 
of  excitement— "I  wanted  to  honor  the  occasion  by 
putting  this  on."  And  he  held  the  coat  up  with  his  two 
hands  in  front  of  him  and  regarded  it  with  a  mingled 
affection  and  regret. 

It  was  a  handsome  coat,  with  lines  of  dignity  and 
grace  even  when  thus  shown  at  a  disadvantage.  The 
color  of  it  was  a  dark  blue,  but  it  had  cuffs  and  collar 
of  black  velvet.  The  design  of  it  was  what  may  be 
called  a  heavy  cutaway. 

"What  the  French  would  call  un  frac  de  ceremonie" 
the  colonel  elucidated. 

"Want  me  to  help  you  on  with  it?" 

"If  you  would  be  so  kind." 

It  took  something  of  an  effort  from  the  two  of  them 
to  get  the  colonel  into  it.  The  coat  was  heavy  and  it 
was  stiff.  Even  after  the  colonel  did  get  it  on,  the 
coat  adhered  to  the  lines  of  some  nobler  mold.  The 
velvet  collar  reared  aloft  and  back.  There  was  a 
swanlike  line  of  beauty  down  the  back.  The  waist  of  it 
swept  in  with  a  suggestion  of  slenderness,  then  swept 
out  again. 

"Some  coat!" 

"It  was  a  perfect  fit  when  I  last  had  it  on,"  the 
colonel  said  gently.  "It  was  made  for  me  by  certainly 
the  best  tailor  in  Mobile." 


FRIEND  EMERSON 

He  slowly  turned,  looking  down  at  himself,  trying 
to  get  a  proper  idea  of  how  the  coat  looked  on  him. 

"Swell!"  said  Davies. 

<CI  wore  this  when  I  pleaded  my  most  celebrated 
case,"  said  the  colonel ;  "my  essential  line  of  argument 
being  that  while  the  cardinal  principles  of  justice  are 
immutable,  there  is,  of  necessity,  a  flux  in  those  meth 
ods  by  which  that  justice  is  administered." 

"Sure;  that's  right,"  Davies  agreed. 

"It  had  to  do  with  a  fine  point  of  constitutional 
law ;  my  contention  being  that  while  assuming  a  distinc 
tive  Federal  jurisprudence  of  paramount  authority 
there  should  not,  however,  be  such  inflexibility  of  in 
terpretation." 

"Sure,"  said  Richard. 

"You  perceive  my  attitude." 

"The  coat  looks  all  right  on  you  at  that." 

"And  then,"  said  the  colonel  wistfully,  as  he  re 
turned  to  the  original  theme,  "why,  I  received  word  of 
my  brother  Abner's  death.  We  had  not  seen  each  other 
for  years.  He  had  made  little  Alvah  his  sole  legatee. 
She  was  the  only  child  of  a  cousin  since  dead.  She  is 
an  orphan.  But  still  he  had  appointed  me  sole  execu 
tor.  It  seemed  like  a  goodly  estate  at  first.  But  the 
claims  against  it  were  so  many — chiefly  made  by  Ab 
ner's  fellow-townsmen  here  in  St.  Clair." 

"They  seem  to  have  got  about  all  there  was." 

"Alas !  I  struggled  on — have  been  struggling  on 
ever  since.  No  sooner  were  one  lot  of  claims  settled 
than  fresh  ones  came  up." 


164  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Enough  to  drive  any  one  to  drink,"  said  Davies. 

"I  became  discouraged,  Richard.  Be  it  said  to  my 
shame,  I  did  become  discouraged.  I  became  care 
less." 

"The  coat  looks  great." 

The  oolonel  again  made  a  slight  gesture  of  depreca 
tion.  He  looked  down  to  the  left  and  to  the  right. 
He  pulled  the  tails  around  and  examined  them,  let  them 
go  again.  He  was  thoughtful,  reminiscent. 

"You  see,"  said  the  colonel,  "I  was  of  a  somewhat 
different  presence  then — of  different  habit.  Mobile  has 
always  been  celebrated  for  its  manhood,  combining  all 
the  strength  and  romance — and  honor,  I  trust — of  the 
old  South." 

He  finished  his  inspection  and  drew  himself  up. 
There  for  a  moment  he  had  almost  adjusted  himself 
to  the  original  lines  of  the  coat — a  fleeting  illusion — 
the  illusion  of  a  fine,  upstanding  gentleman,  broad  of 
chest,  narrow  of  hip,  proud  of  carriage,  tall,  com 
manding,  full  of  grace. 

But  the  effort  was  too  much. 

There  he  was  the  shaken  old  man  again — a  little  too 
round  in  the  shoulders,  a  trifle  loose  about  the  paunch. 

He  cast  a  look  of  chagrin  at  his  companion.  He 
made  a  little  gesture  with  his  hands,  explanatory,  re 
gretful,  and  yet  with  an  air  of  one  who  still  dares  to 
hope. 

"It  looks  great  on  you,  honest,"  said  Davies.  "You 
know  what  my  old  friend,  Bill  Emerson,  says :  'Trust 
yourself!'" 


FRIEND  EMERSON  165 

"Ah,  Emerson,"  the  colonel  cried,  as  if  he  had  heard 
one  more  echo  awakened  out  of  his  past.     He  quoted : 

"I  am  owner  of  the  sphere, 
Of  the  seven  stars  and  the  solar  year, 
Of  Caesar's  hand,  and  Plato's  brain, 
Of  Lord  Christ's  heart,  and  Shakespeare's  strain." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   BEATING   HEAET 

FOE  some  ume  now,  St.  Clair  had  been  experiencing 
the  tremors  of  a  new  sort  of  excitement.  First  of  all, 
there  had  been  a  generous  distribution  of  hand-bills  in 
the  front  yards  of  the  community  announcing  the  ad 
vent  of  the  illustrious  Professor  Culbertson,  of  London, 
England,  who  would  deliver  his  famous  series  of  lec 
tures  on  "The  Beating  Heart."  Then  there  had  ap 
peared  a  two  column  article  in  the  St.  Clair  Weekly 
Messenger  reciting  anecdotes  about  the  great  man. 
The  same  issue  of  the  paper  contained  a  large  display 
advertisement : 

CULBERTSON 

(of  London,  England) 
•'THE  BEATING  HEART" 

He  was  a  celebrated  divine  who  had  traveled  exten 
sively  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  Presidents  and  kings 
had  delighted  to  honor  him.  He  was  perhaps  one  of 
the  most  gifted  orators  America  had  been  permitted 
to  hear  since  the  time  of  Henry  Clay.  His  vast  tal 
ents  and  renown,  however,  had  never  won  him  away 

166 


THE  BEATING  HEART  167 

from  what  he  himself  was  delighted  to  call  "the  little 
deeds  of  simple  kindness."  The  great  cities  never 
ceased  to  clamor  for  him ;  there  were  a  dozen  universi 
ties,  lay  and  theological,  who  were  bidding  against  each 
other  to  secure  him  as  president.  But  the  two  out 
standing  truths  of  Culbertson's  career  were  these: 

He  hated  money. 

He  loved  the  humble  village. 

Not  that  Culbertson  regarded  St.  Clair  as  a  village. 
In  his  correspondence  with  Mayor  Jones,  the  great 
man  referred  to  St.  Clair  as  a  spiritual  and  intellectual 
center  about  which  he  had  heard  numerous  reports  and 
which  he  had  long  desired  to  visit. 

It  was  with  the  full  approval,  therefore,  of  prac 
tically  every  one  in  town  that  Mayor  Jones  offered  to 
Professor  Culbertson  the  free  use  of  the  town  hall,  eve 
nings,  for  as  long  as  he  should  elect  to  stay. 

The  great  man  arrived. 

This  was  Thursday,  and  his  first  lecture  was  not  to 
be  delivered  until  the  following  evening.  He  was  weary 
with  much  travel;  but  all  he  wanted  was  a  little  rest. 
He  had  intended  to  go  to  the  hotel,  and  he  had  listened 
with  kindly  patience  while  a  number  of  the  local  leaders 
in  social  reform,  having  met  him  at  the  depot,  explained 
that  the  hotel  was  a  den  of  the  demon  rum.  A  number 
of  these  leaders  had  offered  him  the  hospitality  of  their 
own  homes — Mrs.  Meckley,  braving  the  danger  of  scan 
dalous  tongues;  the  Beverly  sisters  doing  likewise; 
Mrs.  Crane  and  the  deacon,  the  latter  chastened  by 
what  had  happened  at  the  hotel  after  Gus  had  thrown 
the  colonel  out. 


168  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

The  great  man  had  surveyed  his  prospective  hosts. 

"The  hotel  needs  my  influence  more  than  you,"  he 
had  answered  meekly. 

It  was  the  colonel  who  had  reported  the  illustrious 
one's  arrival  and  what  had  happened  at  the  station. 

"I  don't  blame  him  for  preferring  the  hotel,"  said 
Alvah,  with  a  casual  touch  of  acid. 

"Maybe  the  demon's  a  friend  of  his,"  Davies  sug 
gested. 

The  colonel  smiled,  but  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"Have  you  seen  him,  Richard?" 

"Not  yet.  Frank  Tine,  the  insurance  agent,  has 
kept  me  out  in  the  country  every  day  for  almost  a 
week,  now,  looking  up  prospects  for  him.  Maybe  I'll 
swing  in  on  this  line  altogether — chuck  the  soap — al 
though  I  love  the  soap.  What  does  Brother  Culbert- 
son  look  like?" 

"A  great  and  good  man,"  the  colonel  answered,  with 
a  touch  of  reverence ;  "a  man  grown  white  in  the  service. 
I  felt  drawn  to  him  even  before  I  learned  that  we  had 
many  friends  in  common." 

"Where?" 

"Mobile.  He  loves  the  old  town — which  I  myself 
hold  so  dear— has  been  a  frequent  visitor  there." 

"How  did  you  get  that?" 

"He  told  me — as  soon  as  he  found  out  that  I  came 
from  there.  In  fact,  I  didn't  have  to  tell  him.  Ex 
traordinary!  He  saw  me  standing  at  a  distance  on 
the  station  platform,  and  he  came  right  over  to  me, 
called  me  by  name.  'Is  this  not' — I  quote  him  ver 
batim — 'Colonel  Evan  Williams,  formerly  of  Mobile  ?' ' 


THE  BEATING  HEART  169 

"Some  one  must  have  piped  him  off." 

"Possibly." 

Alvah  spoke  up: 

"I  think  it  would  be  wonderful  if  Richard  should 
become  a  great  insurance  manager.  I  somehow  prefer 
it  to  soap." 

But  the  colonel  was  not  to  be  diverted. 

"A  great  and  a  good  man,"  he  repeated  softly,  with 
his  mind  still  on  Professor  Culbertson.  "I  have  long 
been  eager  to  hear  a  bit  of  old-fashioned  eloquence. 
St.  Clair  is  singularly  destitute  of  orators.  Why,  in 
any  town  of  this  size  further  south,  you'll  find  a  Cal- 
houn — or  a  group  of  Calhouns — everywhere — I  was  go 
ing  to  say  everywhere  they  dispense  good  liquor.  But 
there  is  no  good  liquor,  of  course.  It  will  be  a  great 
joy  to  listen  to  an  orator  of  his  eminence." 

"He  ought  to  run  for  President,"  said  Davies. 

"Our  country  could  do  worse." 

"I  never  heard  of  him,"  said  Alvah  blankly. 

"We  must  attend  his  opening  lecture,"  the  colonel 
averred.  "It  is  a  long  time  since  I  heard  a  bit  of  real 
eloquence." 

"I  think  I'll  wait  for  some  night  when  it  isn't  so 
crowded,"  Alvah  opined. 

"Richard  will  go  with  me.     Won't  you,  Richard  ?" 

The  colonel  spoke  as  a  man  might  who  had  set  his 
feet  to  a  new  road  and  is  not  yet  quite  sure  of  himself. 
Richard  regarded  the  old  man  with  affection. 

"  'The  Beating  Heart'  sounds  good  to  me,"  he  de 
clared. 

It  was  evident  that  there  was  going  to  be  a  crowd, 


170  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

all  right.  The  lecture  was  not  to  begin  until  eight 
o'clock ;  but,  from  all  appearances,  St.  Clair  had  supped 
early,  and  it  was  evident  that  the  council  chamber, 
where  the  lecture  was  to  be  given,  would  be  packed  long 
before  the  slated  hour.  Culbertson,  it  seemed,  had  ap 
pealed  to  the  local  undertaker  to  supply  extra  chairs, 
and  not  only  the  council  chamber  but  the  adjoining 
halls  and  stairways  were  likewise  destined  to  house  their 
throngs. 

The  drift  was  already  running  strong  by  sundown. 

"And  it  looks  to  me,"  said  Davies,  "like  we're  going 
to  stand  unless  you've  made  reservations." 

"I  dare  say  we'll  find  room,  Richard,"  the  colonel 
answered  with  dignity. 

The  colonel  had  on  his  Mobile  coat.  He  wouldn't 
have  walked  fast  in  it,  even  if  he  could  have  done  so. 
That  coat  hadn't  been  made  to  walk  fast  in.  A  stately 
stroll  was  its  concomitant, 

Alvah  had  taken  considerable  time  to  work  it  well 
down  around  the  colonel's  neck  and  shoulders  at  the 
time  they  were  starting  out.  That  was  one  reason 
they  were  now  already  a  little  late.  But,  as  the}' 
walked  along  the  street  the  coat  kept  on  escaping  more 
and  more  into  the  mold  of  its  pristine  elegance — swell 
ing  chest,  swanlike  back — leaving  the  colonel  of  the 
present  day  to  get  along  in  it  the  best  he  could. 

"How  does  it  look  on  me,  Richard?" 

"Great,  Colonel!"  Davies  replied.  "All  I'm  hoping 
is  that  you'll  get  a  good  seat." 

But  in  this  hope  he  seemed  doomed  to  disappoint 
ment. 


THE  BEATING  HEART  171 

The  town  hall  was  already  so  jammed  by  the  time 
they  got  there  that  there  wasn't  even  standing-room 
on  the  front  steps. 

"I  bet,"  said  Davies  softly,  "I  could  work  my  way 
through  this  mob  at  that." 

There  was  an  invitation  in  the  proposal,  but  the 
colonel  was  dignified.  He  held  to  Richard's  arm. 
His  disappointment  was  so  obvious  and  keen,  how 
ever,  that  something  would  have  to  be  done  or  Davies 
would  never  be  able  to  forgive  himself.  It  was  com 
ing  along  toward  eight  o'clock.  In  a  few  minutes  the 
lecture  would  begin,  and  then  it  was  certain  no  inter 
ruptions  would  be  permitted  on  any  grounds. 

It  was  at  this  juncture  that  Fate  came  to  their  aid. 
Fate  wore  the  not  unwelcome  guise  of  Tessie  Wingate. 
She  was  alone.  She  appeared  to  be  looking  about  for 
some  one. 

"Hey,  Tessie,"  Richard  called. 

"Hello,  Dickie!" 

She  dropped  a  bashful  and  richly  dimpled  smile  on 
the  colonel's  account  when  she  saw  that  Davies  was 
not  alone. 

"Say,  isn't  there  a  back  stairs  or  something  to  the 
old  dump?"  he  inquired  with  playful  seriousness.  "I've 
just  got  to  have  a  place  for  the  colonel  here  if  I  have 
to  knock  the  house  down." 

"Why,  certainly — since  it's  you,"  she  answered. 

She  led  them  to  the  back  of  the  building,  and  there, 
with  a  key  of  her  own,  she  opened  an  unlighted  door. 
Just  inside,  there  was  a  narrow  stairway  running  to 
the  council-chamber  on  the  second  floor.  Through  an 


172  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

open  door  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  there  came  a  flood  of 
yellow  light  and  the  surf-sounds  of  a  crowd. 

"The  professor  just  went  up  this  way  himself  not 
ten  minutes  ago,"  she  informed  them. 

Just  then  there  was  a  rising  splurge  of  sound  as  the 
crowd  began  to  clap  its  hands.  The  lecture  was  about 
to  begin.  The  colonel  had  murmured  his  thanks  with 
nervous  haste  and  was  already  climbing  the  stairs. 

Davies  paused  where  he  was,  as  Tessie  lingered. 
They  looked  at  each  other  through  the  twilight  of  the 
dirty  little  landing  where  they  stood. 

"It's  me  that's  got  'The  Beating  Heart,'  "  he  whis 
pered. 

He  slipped  his  arms  about  her.  He  flashed  his  lips 
to  hers. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

EYE  TO  EYE 

"BROTHERS  and  sisters " 

Hidden  behind  the  door  of  the  upper  landing  there 
were  two  campstools,  possibly  put  there  by  Tessie  her 
self  for  purposes  of  her  own,  and  this  fed  the  little 
flame  in  Davies's  heart  as  he  got  them  out  and  opened 
them. 

"It's  begun,"  the  colonel  whispered  tremulously. 

A  false  alarm. 

Davies  had  given  the  colonel  the  best  place,  where 
the  colonel  could  command  a  partial  view  of  the  speak 
er's  platform.  Where  Davies  sat,  he  could  not  see  the 
speaker  at  all,  merely  a  fringe  of  the  elect  who  had  been 
invited  to  places  at  the  speaker's  side — Mayor  Jones, 
sallow,  sardonic  and  shifty,  playing  up  by  this  means 
to  the  church  element  who  had  been  down  on  him  rather 
for  permitting  certain  doings  at  the  hotel ;  Mrs.  Jones, 
large-boned,  a  dressed-up  cook  but  with  social  ambi 
tions  ;  the  Beverly  sisters,  refined,  intellectual,  and  pro 
prietary,  as  became  the  great  man's  hostesses  at  dinner 
this  night ;  Mrs.  Meckley,  with  a  touch  of  extra  dressi 
ness,  all  wormwood  and  honey. 

"We  have  with  us  to-night " 

A  voice  that  was  deliberate,  nasal  and  high. 
173 


174  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Deacon  Crane,""  whispered  the  colonel,  composing 
himself  to  wait  but  not  to  listen. 

Davies  though  could  scarcely  hear  anything  save 
the  riot  in  his  heart  and  brain.  His  eye  went  o-ut  to 
those  on  the  platform  and  beyond  to  the  shimmer  of 
lamplit  faces  that  represented  a  portion  of  the  dense 
crowd  assembled  there;  yet  he  saw  them  not. 

"I  kissed  her  on  the  lips,"  he  told  himself.  "I  didn't 
intend  to  do  it.  You  did,  you  mutt !  I  did  not.  And 
she  held  her  lips  to  mine." 

"Let  us,  therefore,  brothers  and  sisters " 

The  deacon  was  still  at  it.  The  colonel  was  nodding 
with  his  eyes  closed,  a  look  of  grim  patience  on  his 
face.  A  scuffling  of  feet  in  the  back  of  the  hall.  A 
titter  of  laughter.  A  general  sli! 

"She  was  soft  like  a  pillow,"  Davies  was  telling  him 
self.  "You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself.  She 
liked  it  as  much  as  I  did.  Yeh!  Taking  advantage 
of  a  country  girl.  You  lie.  You're  the  same  old 
crook.  But  I  hope  to  marry  her!" 

" — have  the  honor  to  inter juce " 

There  was  a  clamorous  outburst  of  applause  that 
lasted  a  full  two  minutes.  There  were  strands  of  ap 
plause  fringing  out  even  after  that,  especially  from 
those  on  the  platform — the  Beverly s,  Mrs.  Meckley. 
And  the  colonel  also  was  clapping  his  hands — clapping 
his  hands  for  Culbertson,  of  London,  England,  who 
had  been  to  Mobile  and  loved  the  old  town.  Davies 
himself  forgot  his  amorous  and  ethical  meditations  for 
the  moment,  sought  to  see  the  speaker;  but  he  could 
see  nothing  but  the  agitated  pool  of  hands  and  faces. 


EYE  TO  EYE  175 

"My  friends " 

This  time,  a  voice  that  was  sonorous,  rich  and  warm. 

"I  see  a  young  mother,  down  there,  with  a  dear  little 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  they're  a  leetle  bit  crowded. 
Could  one  of  you  neighbors  sort  of  move  over " 

It  was  evident  that  Culbertson  had  won  his  crowd. 
There  was  another  little  ripple  of  hand-clapping,  a  sub 
dued  flutter  of  sympathy  and  admiration.  Then  the 
speaker's  voice  was  all  that  could  be  heard  in  the  other 
wise  perfect  silence: 

"Before  I  go  on,  I  just  must  say  a  word  about  the 
joy  I  feel  at  being  in  the  midst  of  a  gathering  such 
as  this.  I  wasn't  feeling  very  good;  like  Abraham, 
an  old  man  and  full  of  years ;  but  I  no  sooner  set  m}^ 
foot  on  this  platform  than  I  got  your  message — yours, 
sister,  and  yours,  brother — of  sweetness  and  of 
strength " 

Davies,  only  moderately  interested,  saw  the  door  at 
the  bottom  of  the  narrow  stairway  open.  Even  before 
he  could  distinguish  who  the  late  arrivals  were  he  was 
pricked  to  something  like  tumult  by  a  suppressed  gig 
gle  and  a  whispered  expostulation. 

That  was  Tessie  Wingate  down  there. 

He  leaned  back,  so  that  he  would  be  in  the  shadow. 
He  did  this  in  obedience  to  instinct.  He  didn't  want 
to  embarrass  Tessie,  and  instinct  told  him  that  she 
would  be  embarrassed  if  she  discovered  that  he  was 
watching  her.  The  instinct  was  right  most  likely. 
Tessie  was  not  alone.  A  young  man  followed  her 
through  the  door,  vaguely  tall  and  handsome  but  a 
stranger.  Tessie  had  given  a  glance  up  the  stairs  to- 


176  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

ward  the  lighted  door  at  the  top.  The  lower  door 
had  been  closed  at  once  by  the  stranger. 

"The  dirty  mutt!" 

Davies,  despite  the  shadowy  darkness  of  the  lower 
landing,  had  seen  the  stranger  down  there  embracing 
the  girl. 

"And  oh,  let  us  be  tender!" 

Culbertson  was  getting  into  his  stride. 

Tessie  had  fought  herself  momentarily  free. 

"She  didn't  want  him  to  do  it,"  panted  Davies  to 
himself.  ' 

He  sat  there  with  his  ears,  every  now  and  then,  bring 
ing  him  fragments  of  the  message  that  Culbertson,  the 
illustrious,  was  delivering  to  the  good  people  of  St. 
Clair.  But,  most  of  the  time,  his  ears  were  engrossed 
with  the  warring  sentiments  that  were  voicing  them 
selves  inside  his  brain.  All  the  time,  his  eyes  were  on 
those  two  shadowy  shapes  at  the  bottom  of  the  dark 
stairs. 

And  yet  there  were  lapses  in  his  mental  vision,  too — 
times  when  a  third  figure,  also  shadowy,  obtruded  itself 
on  his  thoughts ;  and  this  was  the  apparition  of  the  girl 
who  had  taken  his  arm  that  night  of  the  battle  in  the 
hotel.  He  saw  her  cool  and  straight  and  brave,  felt 
the  touch  of  her  hand,  light  but  strong  and  reassuring : 
Alvah  Morley. 

Culbertson's  voice  came  to  him  as  through  a  wall, 
thickly : 

"And  lo !  it  is  the  gift  of  love  that  maketh  the  world 
go  round,  precious  love  that  meeteth  the  needs  of  our 
souls.  Meat  for  your  hunger,  salve  for  your  wounds." 


EYE  TO  EYE  177 

But  the  jealousy  that  tormented  Davies  made  him 
deaf  to  the  lofty  strain  of  the  orator. 

This  also  was  love — the  thing1  that  was  biting1  him 
ROW. 

He  almost  wished  that  he  had  never  left  New  York. 
His  mind  glanced  back  to  the  last  meeting  in  the  back 
room  of  the  Commodore.  There  was  the  cherubic 
Solly,  the  snaky  mouthed  Phil,  tremulous  Myrtle.  But 
the  blurred  picture  was  dominated  most  by  old  Sky- 
Blue,  the  bishop.  Was  the  old  man  right  in  his  mock 
ery  of  goodness  ?  Or  was  Ezra  Wood  right  in  putting 
goodness  over  all? 

"Old  Ezra  Wood  was  right,"  declared  his  heart,  and 
they  were  like  words  spoken  by  a  trumpet,  could  such 
a  thing  have  been  possible. 

Said  Culbertson : 

"Are  not  angels  chiefly  female?" 

"Yeh,  when  hounds  like  you  down  there  keep  out," 
said  Davies. 

While  it  was  evident,  though,  that  Tessie  had  done 
her  best  to  repulse  the  stranger,  she  had  none  the  less 
consented  to  sit  down  at  his  side  on  one  of  the  lower 
steps. 

"Love.     Sweet  mystery!     Oh,  lovely  love!" 

Only  fragments  of  the  lecture  were  reaching  Davies. 

"If  I  had  that  country  Jake  by  the  gizzard,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "I'd  make  his  eyes  pop  out." 

He  had  seen  the  stranger  slip  his  arm  about  Tes- 
sie's  waist  and  leave  it  there. 

There  was  a  warm  outbreak  of  applause  from  the 
crowd  in  the  hall.  It  rose  with  cumulative  force,  abun- 


178  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

dant  and  well-sustained.  The  colonel  took  advantage 
of  the  interruption  to  turn  and  look  at  his  companion. 
The  colonel  was  moved.  He  put  a  hand  on  Davies's 
knee. 

"A  beautiful  sentiment,"  the  colonel  whispered, 

"It  sure  was,"  Davies  agreed. 

There  was  no  doubt  but  that  Tessie  was  ill  at  ease. 
Davies  could  tell  that  from  the  way  she  kept  turning 
to  glance  up  the  stairs.  Still,  she  was  in  no  position 
to  protect  herself,  although  Davies  bitterly  wished  that 
she  would. 

"What  do  you  want  her  to  do?"  he  asked  himself; 
"make  a  disturbance  with  all  these  people  around? — • 
ruin  her  reputation?" 

"The  Beating  Heart  makes  little  children  of  us  all." 

That  was  the  trouble  with  Tessie.  How  could  you 
expect  a. girl  like  her  to  have  any  knowledge  of  the 
world?  She  was  as  pure  and  innocent  as  a  chicken  just 
out  of  the  egg — in  a  world  that  was  filled  with  hawks 
and  snakes. 

"Love  between  us.     Let  us  all  love." 

Davies  dimly  saw  the  stranger  at  the  bottom  of  the 
steps  merge  his  head  with  Tessie's. 

It  seemed  to  Davies  a  long,  long  time  afterwards 
that  he  was  awakened  from  his  apathy.  Tessie  and 
her  stranger-friend  had  gone  some  time  ago,  and  after 
that  the  world  had  settled  into  muffled  gloom  and 
silence.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned  it  had.  But  there 
was  a  final  ripping  outburst  of  applause,  then  a  lull, 
then  the  voice  of  Culbertson: 


EYE  TO  EYE  171) 

"Come  forward  and  clasp  my  hand." 

After  that,  the  applause  was  breaking  again,  and 
there  was  a  surge  of  movement. 

The  colonel  turned. 

"It  was  magnificent,  Richard." 

"It  sure  was." 

"Let  us  go  in  and  clasp  his  hand,"  the  colonel  pro 
posed. 

Davies  was  willing.  Nothing  mattered  very  much. 
Had  the  colonel  proposed  that  they  jump  from  a  win 
dow,  Davies  would  have  agreed. 

He  followed  the  colonel  through  the  door  and  on  to 
the  platform.  The  place  was  swarming.  Culbertson, 
it  seemed,  had  left  the  platform,  however,  had  descended 
to  the  level  of  the  floor  where  he  would  be  more  access 
ible  to  the  horde. 

It  was  slow  business. 

They  had  to  form  in  line  and  move  along  inch  by  inch, 
with  long  intervals  of  waiting.  At  last,  however,  the 
illustrious  one  was  just  ahead.  Davies  couldn't  see 
him  yet,  but  he  could  hear  his  warm  and  sonorous  voice : 

"God  bless  you,  brother!"     "I  noticed  you,  sister." 

Had  he  ever  heard  that  voice  before? 

He  wasn't  sure.  He  didn't  give  the  question  much 
thought.  It  was  hardly  a  question.  He  was  too  much 
preoccupied  with  what  had  happened  out  there  in  the 
stairway — both  to  himself  and  to  the  vaguely  handsome 
unknown. 

And  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  so  to  speak,  there  he  was 
lookiag  into  a  pair  of  keen  eyes.  The  eyes  were  the 


180  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

pivotal  points  of  a  white  cascade  of  whiskers  and  hair. 

Professor  Culbertson! 

They  recognized  each  other. 

Culbertson  was  the  bishop.     Culbertson  was  old  Sky- 
Blue. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

US    TWO 

CULBERTSON  had  taken  Davies's  hand  in  his  own  and 
was  holding  it. 

Their  eyes  had  similarly  interlocked,  so  to  speak, 
Culbertsori  was  smiling — smiling  with  his  brilliant  little 
eyes,  principally,  for  not  much  of  his  face  was  visible 
through  his  beard.  Davies  stared. 

Culbertson  spoke: 

"What  did  you  say  your  name  was  ?" 

"Davies — Richard  Davies." 

"Oh,  my  dear  young  friend  !'*  He  was  beaming. 
He  glibly  lied :  "Yes,  I  got  your  request.  I  will  speak 
a  word  with  you  in  private." 

The  colonel  had  turned.  He  was  tremulous  with 
pleasure,  proud  and  delighted. 

"He  bears  a  great  name,  Professor  Culbertson. 
You  are  doubtless  familiar  with  it." 

"Yes!  Yes,  indeed!  The  grea-a-a-t  Richard 
Davies !" 

"Who  translated  the  Bible  into  the  Cymric." 

Culbertson,  still  holding  Davies's  hand,  was  enjoying 
the  situation  to  the  utmost.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  that.  His  smile  had  extended  until  it  was  visi 
ble  through  his  beard.  He  was  like  Santa  Glaus  before 

181 


182  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

a  particularly  good  child.  The  rest  of  the  crowd  was 
jamming1  up  with  added  smiles  for  the  colonel  and  the 
colonel's  friend  whom  the  great  man  so  signally  hon 
ored. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  droned  Santa  Claus.  "And  there 
is,  to  be  sure,  a  family  resemblance.  Tarry  here  until 
I  have  spoken  a  word  to  these  other  dear  friends. 
Don't  go  awat.  Here  are  a  couple  of  chairs  right 
back  of  me." 

Davies  and  the  colonel  sat  down,  with  Culbertson 
right  in  front  of  them.  They  could  hear  his  voice, 
gentle,  mellifluous: 

"God  bless  you,  sister." 

"Brother  Smith  !     Ah,  yes !     Brother  Smith !" 

But  all  the  time  a  fine  observer  could  have  told  that 
he  was  keeping  half  an  eye  on  his  friends  to  the  rear. 
Once,  the  great  man  turned  and  glowed  at  the  colonel 
and  asked  him  if  he  had  had  a  letter  recently  from 
Mobile — it  was  clear  that  Sky;Blue  suffered  from  no 
loss  of  memory — but  the  professor's  glance,  amused 
and  keen,  had  been  for  Davies. 

"You  didn't  tell  me,"  whispered  the  colonel,  without 
resentment. 

"What?" 

"That  you  and  he  had  been  in  communication." 

Davies  didn't  know  what  to  say. 

He  didn't  know  what  to  say,  for  that  matter,  even 
when  he  and  Sky-Blue  and  the  colonel  were  leaving  the 
place  together.  The  great  man  had  gently,  almost 
affectionately,  dismissed  the  last  of  his  admirers — 
even  the  Beverly  sisters.  He  came  right  out  and  said 


US  TWO  183 

that  his  dear  young  friend  Richard  had  expressed  a 
need  for  him  and  that  he  was  never  too  tired  to  grant 
such  a  request.  And  Davies  could  see  that  this  was 
strengthening  his  own  position  with  the  townspeople, 
and  the  colonel's  as  well.  But  Davies  was  silent,  ill  at 
ease. 

The  three  of  them  walked  slowly  down  the  street 
together,  the  colonel  and  the  professor  doing  most  of 
the  talking.  For  quite  a  while  they  were  still  in  the 
homeward  drift  from  the  hall,  and  Culbertson  was  still 
interrupted  rather  frequently  by  those  who  wished  to 
bid  him  good  night,  invite  him  to  dinner,  inquire  into 
the  length  of  his  stay.  For  all  these  inquiries  he  had 
a  gentle  and  affectionate  word. 

It  struck  Davies,  though,  that  even  now  Sky-Blue 
was  chiefly  occupied  in  getting  such  information  from 
the  colonel  as  would  help  to  check  up  any  story  that 
Davies  himself  might  tell  later  on. 

"Yes,  yes !  Descendant  of  the  great  Welsh  Saint !" 
Sky-Blue  could  enjoy  a  joke  as  much  as  any  one.  He 
squeezed  Davies's  arm.  "How  lovely  it  would  be — 
how  splendid  it  would  be — if  he  himself  should  become  a 
minister  of  the  Gospel !  When  did  you  say  it  was  that 
your  brother  Abner  died?" 

Davies  wasn't  listening  to  what  the  colonel  said. 

"As  I  remember  him,"  said  old  Sky-Blue,  "he  was 
a  man  of  splendid  qualities — qualities  that  endeared 
him  to  all  who  knew  him.  Did  you  say  that  he  left  con 
siderable  property?'* 

Davies  was  in  something  of  a  panic  for  a  while.  It 
was  not  a  panic  of  fear  in  any  sense.  It  was  a  panic 


184  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

of  resentment.  As  he  looked  back  on  it,  this  whole 
night  thus  far  had  been  a  panic  of  resentment.  Sky- 
Blue's  presence  was  a  catastrophe — a  plague  that  had 
fallen  upon  him  just  when  it  seemed  as  if  he  was  getting 
this  new  life  of  his  well  under  way. 

"Ah,  yes !"  Sky-Blue  was  saying,  "and  his  niece  was 
the  sole  heiress!  Alvah  Morley!  How  old  did  you 
say  Alvah  was?" 

They  lingered  for  a  while  at  the  colonel's  front  gate, 
the  three  of  them  did;  and  the  great  Professor  Cul- 
bertson  there  disclosed  to  the  colonel  a  purpose  to  tarry 
in  St.  Clair  for  an  indefinite  period.  The  goodness  of 
St.  Clair  had  already  taken  a  strong  hold  on  the  pro 
fessor's  heart.  He  was  weary.  He  was  like  Abraham, 
an  old  man  and  full  of  years. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  colonel,  with  a  touch  of  ner 
vousness,  "that  I  can't  offer  you  anything." 

Culbertson  gave  a  slight  start.  He  lifted  his  right 
hand,  palm  outward.  But  he  slanted  a  glance  at 
Davies  through  the  blue  darkness,  and  Davies  could 
see  that  the  old  reprobate  was  smiling  through  his 
beard. 

"I'll  ask  your  young  friend  Richard  to  guide  me  to 
my  abode,"  he  said  weakly.  "Good  night,  colonel." 

But  scarcely  had  the  colonel  gone  before  Sky-Blue's 
weakness  left  him. 

"Chick!"  he  breathed.  "Damn  my  eyes  if  it  ain't 
Chick!" 

"Don't  call  me  that." 

"Richard!" 

"Yes!" 


US  TWO  185 

"Descended  from  Saint  Richard!" 

Sky-Blue  softly  laughed.  From  his  left  pocket  he 
extracted  what  appeared  to  be  a  silver  spectacle  case. 
He  opened  this  and  carefully  wadded  up  a  generous 
chew  of  fine-cut  tobacco  which  he  stowed  into  the  cavern 
beyond  his  beard. 

"Let's  get  away  from  here,"  Davies  said.  "They'll 
hear  you." 

"Not  that  way,"  said  Sky-Blue,  as  Davies  started 
back  in  the  direction  of  the  town.  "Ain't  there  some 
place  where  we  can  sit  down  together  for  a  while  and 
make  ourselves  at  home?"  He  forked  his  beard  and 
spat  between  his  fingers.  "I  got  a  quart  of  the  best 
malt  whisky  you  ever  tasted  back  there  in  my  grip  at 
the  hotel,"  he  said ;  "but  as  I  recollect  you  don't  drink." 

"That's  right." 

"You're  a  bright  one !" 

It  was  the  professor  who  led  the  way  out  along  the 
road  toward  the  open  country  beyond  the  Flowery 
Harbor.  The  professor  seemed  to  be  perfectly  at  home 
in  the  country,  even  at  night.  When  they  had  gone 
far  enough  he  cast  about  for  a  place  where  they  could 
sit  down.  But  he  was  averse  to  sticking  too  close  to 
the  road. 

"You're  a  bright  one,  Chick.  You  can't  be  too  care 
ful  in  our  business." 

"What  do  you  mean,  'our  business'?" 

"Now,  there  you  go." 

"You  got  me  wrong.     I'm  on  the  level." 

"Tell  it  to  Sweeny."     The  professor  was  jovial. 


186  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

After  a  while  they  were  seated  on  an  overturned 
wagon-body  back  of  a  hay-rick. 

"So  you  got  yourself  right  up  to  where  you're  be 
lieving  it  yourself,"  laughed  Sky-Blue  softly.  "Well, 
you're  right.  You're  right.  That's  the  only  way  to 
make  others  believe  it."  He  forked  his  beard  and  spat 
between  his  fingers.  "I  wish  I  had  a  leetle  drop  of  that 
malt,"  he  ruminated.  "It's  the  best  liquor  that  ever 
tickled  your  gullet.  When  do  you  reckon  you're  go 
ing  to  marry  the  colonel's  niece?" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

STARLIGHT    AND    GRAFT 

"I  WASN'T  reckonin'  anything  about  it,"  said  Davies, 
with  a  hint  of  asperity. 

"O-ho!  You  wasn't  reckonin'  anything  about  it! 
Seems  to  me  you've  improved  your  language  a  whole 
lot  too.  You're  a  slick  one.  You  always  were  a  slick 
one.  I  don't  know  of  a  soul  I'd  rather  have  met  up 
with.  So  you're  straight?" 

"Trying  to  be." 

"Well,  then,  who's  putting  up  for  you?" 

"No  one." 

"You  ain't  living  on  air." 

"I'm  working  for  a  living." 

"What  line?" 

"For  a  wliile  I  was  selling  soap.  Now  I'm  digging 
up  insurance  prospects  for  a  fellow  here  in  town  named 
Tine." 

"Prank  Tine." 

"You've  met  him?" 

"No,  but  I  reckon  I  will.  I  hear  he  is  one  of  these 
fellows  that'd  bet  his  own  grandmother  on  a  pair  of 
deuces."  Sky-Blue  glanced  up.  "What  a  beautiful 
night !" 

187 


188  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Davies  watched  him  as  he  laid  his  coat  aside,  took 
off  a  shoe. 

"You  seem  to  be  well  posted." 

"Middling !  Middling !  If  I  thought  you  really  was 
working  for  this  here  Tine,  and  didn't  know  that  you 
was  a  damn-sight  slicker'n  he  was,  I'd  tell  you  to 
look  out  for  him  as  a  second-class  crook.  Are  you 
and  him  working  together?'* 

"I  teU  you  I'm  on  the  level,"  said  Davies.  "That 
stuff  I  was  telling  you  the  last  time  I  saw  you  in  New 
York  was  straight.  I've  quit  the  game.  How  do  you 
know  so  much  about  folks  here  in  St.  Clair?" 

''Well,  since  it's  you,  I  bought  the  sucker-list  of  old 
Doc  Turnbull  who's  been  selling  Indian  remedies  in  this 
town  for  the  past  seven  years,  and  incidentally  taking 
away  such  odd  change  as  he  could  pick  up  in  the  poker 
game  over  at  the  hotel.  Doc  didn't  need  the  list  any 
more." 

"Dead?" 

"Doing  time  out  in  South  Dakota."  He  smiled  up 
into  the  darkness.  "What's  the  nature  of  this  insur 
ance  work  you  say  you're  doing?" 

"I  drive  around  the  country  with  the  horse  and 
buggy,  find  out  where  there's  a  good  prospect,  put 
Tine  next,  and  he  splits  the  commission  with  me." 

"And  Tine  hasn't  skun  you  yet?" 

"He  owes  me  quite  a  little." 

Sky-Blue  laughed. 

"Well,  anyway,"  he  said,  "you  ain't  losing  your 
time." 

"In  what  way?" 


STARLIGHT  AND  GRAFT  189 

"Well,  you're  getting  a  lot  of  useful  information. 
There's  old  doc's  sucker-list,  for  example.  It  ain't 
what  it  should  be — not  in  a  great  many  particulars. 
No  sucker-list  ever  is,  until  I  get  through  with  them. 
Why,  take  the  case  of  your  old  friend,  the  colonel,  for 
instance." 

"Yes;  what  about  him?" 

"That's  the  point.     What's  he  worth?" 

"His  weight  in  gold." 

"Flapdoodle !     How  much  money  has  he  got?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"No,  I  suppose  not !  Doc  Turnbull's  got  him  down 
as  a  sort  of  original  brand  of  miser  with  half  a  million 
tucked  away.  I  don't  want  to  crab  your  game,  Chicky ; 
but  was  that  what  you  was  after?" 

"Of  course  not." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  misunderstand.  I  don't  think 
you  do,  or  will.  You've  seen  a  little  of  my  work,  and 
you've  probably  heard  about  it  more.  I've  retired 
from  active  practice,  you  might  say — become  what 
you  might  ca-11  an  authority.  They've  come  to  count 
on  me — doctors,  ministers,  lawyers,  inventors,  publish 
ers.  Why,  a  sucker-list  like  that  of  poor  old  Doc 
Turnbull  is,  you  might  say,  nothing  but  raw  material 
for  me.  I'll  take  a  list  like  that,  for  St.  Clair,  for 
example,  and  by  the  time  I  get  through  with  it  there 
won't  be  an  electric  institoot,  or  a  college  of  quacks, 
or  a  fake  magazine,  or  a  phony  charity  plant — not  in 
God's  own  country,  nor  Canada — no,  nor  in  England, 
or  Sweden — that  won't  pay  me  five  hundred  dollars 
for  it  any  day — and  maybe  two  or  three  of  them  buy- 


190  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

ing  the  same  list  at  the  same  time.     But  I'm  getting 
old.     I'm  getting  old." 

Old  Sky-Blue  took  his  sock  from  his  unshod  foot. 
He  rested  the  foot  happily  on  the  turf  and  wriggled 
his  toes.  He  had  removed  his  hat,  and  now  he  lifted 
his  face  with  its  misty  white  drift  of  beard  and  mane. 
He  might  have  been  the  prophet  David  ready  to  raise 
his  voice  in  song: 

I  have  been  young,  and  now  am  old;  yet  have  I  not  seen  the 
righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging  bread. 

"Bishop,'*  said  Davies,  "honestly,  when  I  heard  you 
spiel  to-night,  and  saw  how  all  the  folks  fell  for  you,  I 
was  thinking  that  maybe  you  were  on  the  square  your 
self." 

"I  am  on  the  square.'* 

"Well,  then,  what  are  you  driving  at?" 

"I  never  diddled  the  law  in  my  life,"  said  Sky-Blue, 
still  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  as  he  contemplated  the  night. 
"Making  folks  feel  good !  That's  my  line.  And  if  that 
ain't  being  on  the  square,  why,  I'd  like  to  know  what 
you  call  it,  Chicky.  And  that's  why  I'm  going  to  off er 
you  the  biggest  chance  any  boy  ever  had.  I'm  going 
to  make  a  man  out  of  you.  I'm  going  to  treat  you  like 
a  son — make  you  rich — make  j^ou  famous " 

"I'm  much  obliged,  but " 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  ain't  through  yet.  When  I  saw 
you  in  the  town  hall  to-night,  you  all  alone,  and  fresh 
and  innocent  right  off  the  Bowery,  and  trying  to  work 
this  town  all  by  yourself,  why,  my  heart  just  cried  for 
you.  It  did.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  from 


STARLIGHT  AND  GRAFT  191 

bursting  out  right  in  front  of  all  those  tin-horn  hypo 
crites  and  slobbering  old  hens  and  taking  you  to  my 
bosom." 

"Well,  I  was  surprised  to  see  you  too." 

"Listen,  Chicky,"  and  the  bishop  came  back  to  earth 
and  dropped  his  voice.  "Fm  going  to  show  you  how 
much  I  think  of  you.  You're  right.  Never  go  in  for 
this  hanky-panky,  mealy-mouthed,  psalm-singing  line 
of  pious  graft  unless  you've  got  the  gall  to  put  it  over 
even  on  your  friends.  Me,  I'm  gettin*  a  leetle  old — a 
leetle  slack.  I  like  my  comforts — my  chaw  of  tobac- 
cer,  my  occasional  bend.  You — you're  different. 
Here  you  are,  sittin'  here  now,  solemn  as  a  sexton, 
lettin'  on  even  to  old  Sky-Blue  that  you're  straight." 

"I  am." 

"Right  enough!  Now,  what  I'm  drivin'  at  is  this: 
I  expect  the  sucker-list  for  this  town,  as  annotated 
and  brought  up  to  date,  will  be  worth  one  thousand 
bucks  at  least.  I  can  get  almost  that  much  from  a 
new  spirit-photo  concern  alone.  Then,  if  I  decide  to 
do  so — as  I  think  maybe  I  will — and  stay  around  here 
like  it  was  my  headquarters  for  maybe  two  or  three 
months  or  so — I  ought  to  be  able  to  stick  the  good 
people  for  three  or  four  thousand  more  on  behalf  of  the 
Beating  Heart  Seminary  which  I'm  expectin*  to  found 
in  Wichita." 

"What's  the  answer?" 

"The  answer's  this,  Rollo:  Grandpa's  gain*  to  let 
you  in  on  the  graft." 

"I  think  I'd  better  be  getting  back  to  the  house," 


192  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

said  Davies.  "I'm  afraid  the  folks  will  be  sitting  up 
for  me." 

"Well,  well,  well!"  purred  the  bishop. 

He  proceeded  to  pull  on  his  sock  and  his  shoes,  while 
Davies  waited  for  him.  Sky-Blue  was  talking  to  him 
self.  And  it  sounded  gentle  and  ironical  and  disquiet 
ing  to  Davies,  although  he  couldn't  catch  much  of  what 
the  bishop  said — not  even  when  the  elder  had  taken 
him  by  the  arm  and  started  back  with  him  in  the  direc 
tion  from  which  they  had  come. 

Davies  was  silent.  He  was  oppressed  by  a  sense  of 
foreboding.  This  became  acute  as  he  saw  that  the 
colonel  had  waited  for  him — that  the  colonel  and  Alvah 
were  both  sitting  on  the  stoop. 

"Is  that  the  niece?"  Sky-Blue  whispered. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  well,  well,"  the  bishop  droned. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

HIGH  PRAISE 

"I'VE  just  been  having  a  talk  with  our  dear  boy  Rich 
ard,"  the  bishop  was  saying,  a  little  later;  and  he 
slipped  his  arm  around  Davies's  shoulder  and  patted 
him  with  paternal  affection. 

"Well,  we  think  a  lot  of  Richard,"  the  colonel 
averred. 

It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  colonel  was  as  moved  as 
if  the  great  man  had  praised  an  actual  son  of  the  house. 
At  the  sight  of  Professor  Culbertson  and  Davies  re 
turning  from  their  walk  the  colonel  had  hurried  down  to 
the  gate.  He  was  now  followed,  somewhat  timidly,  by 
Alvah.  Old  Sky-Blue  had  an  eye  for  the  girl  as  she 
approached  through  the  blue  transparency  of  the  night. 
All  girls  may  appear  beautiful  seen  through  such  a 
veil. 

With  his  hands  still  patting  Davies  on  the  shoulder, 
Sky-Blue  spoke  again: 

"And  this  is  the  dear  niece !  Yes,  yes !  Richard  has 
spoken  to  me  about  her." 

"You're  a  liar,"  stormed  Davies  in  his  heart,  but  he 
made  no  sound. 

Alvah  came  forward  with  her  eyes  on  the  great  man, 
but  she  had  shot  one  glance  in  Richard's  direction. 

193 


194  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

What  could  Richard  have  been  saying  about  her  ?  She 
acknowledged  her  uncle's  introduction.  She  put  out 
her  hand,  and  Sky-Blue  took  it.  He  not  only  took  it ; 
he  held  on  to  it.  He  not  only  held  on  to  it ;  he  gently 
patted  it. 

"Dear  child!" 

"Uncle  has  spoken  about  you,"  she  faltered;  and 
it  seemed  to  Davies  that  he  could  see  her  flush  with 
embarrassment. 

"Dear  child !" 

"Ah,  let  go  her  hand,"  said  Davies  in  his  heart. 

"Spoken  about  you  very  enthusiastically,"  Alvah 
completed  what  she  had  started  out  to  say. 

"And  wasn't  you  there  yourself?"  the  bishop  asked 
her,  with  gentle  reproof. 

"No." 

"You  should  have  come  with  Richard.  Richard 
would  have  brought  you.  Wouldn't  you,  Richard?" 

And  he  finally  released  his  hold  on  Alvah  to  em 
brace  dear  Richard  again.  Richard  was  silent. 

"There  is  nothing,"  said  the  colonel,  "nothing! — 
that  we  could  ask  Richard  to  do  that  he  wouldn't  do." 
The  colonel  was  speaking  with  genuine  emotion. 
"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down  for  a  while?  It  is 
still  early." 

Davies's  heart  sank.  He  heard  Sky-Blue  saying 
something  about  the  sweet  influences  of  affection  and 
family  life.  He  distrusted  the  bishop  savagely,  and 
never  so  much  as  at  this  present  moment. 

"Our  home  is  humble,"  the  colonel  apologized. 

"Love  maketh  marble  halls,"  Sky-Blue  intoned.    He 


HIGH  PRAISE  195 

was  through  the  gate  and  had  taken  Alvah's  arm  for 
support. 

Even  so,  Davies,  from  the  rear,  could  see  that  the 
bearded  elder  was  alert  to  all  that  he  saw,  was  only 
too  glad  to  make  a  closer  acquaintance  with  the  house. 
Sky-Blue  was  deftly  supplementing  the  questions  he 
had  already  asked  the  colonel  concerning  the  owner 
ship  of  the  property,  Alvah  answering  him  with  simple 
frankness. 

"So  all  this  will  be  yours,  some  day?" 

"If  there's  anything  left  of  it." 

"Well,  well,  well!     And  St.  Clair  is  growing." 

"Three  new  families  in  the  last  month.  And  there's 
Mr.  Davies." 

"Yes,  yes !     There's  Mr.  Davies." 

Alvah  ran  into  the  dark  house  and  brought  out 
a  cushion  for  the  great  man,  and  Professor  Culbertson 
settled  down  on  this  as  if  he  intended  to  remain  the 
rest  of  the  night.  Perhaps  this  was  his  intention. 

"I  was  just  telling  Richard,  but  a  moment  ago," 
he  related,  "what  a  jewel  of  a  blessing  had  been  con 
ferred  upon  him — merited!  merited! — to  be  thus 
adopted  into  a  home  circle  like  that  of  Colonel  Evan 
Williams." 

"Now !     Now !"  the  colonel  protested  modestly. 

"One  of  the  proudest  names  of  the  South!  'Why,'  I 
says  to  him,  'you  may  well  be  descended  from  a  saint 
— as  you  are,'  I  says  to  him;  'but  where  would  even 
a  saint  be,'  I  says  to  him,  'if  your  saint  had  to  live  in 
the  tainted  atmosphere' — I  believe  that's  the  phrase 
I  used.  Ain't  it,  Richard?  Well,  never  mind,  'If 


196  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

your  saint  had  to  live,'  I  says  to  him,  'in  the  pes 
tiferous — yea,  and  insectiferous' — I  believe  in  a  little 
modest  merriment — 'hotel  I'm  in  instead  of  this  noble 
'n  godly  home?'" 

"You're  very "  the  colonel  began. 

"And  Richard — God  bless  the  boy ! — he  speaks  right 
up,  and  he  says  to  me,  'Dr.  Culbertson' — manly  like, 
inspired  to  the  grea-a-a-t  lesson  of  service  and  loving 
kindness ;  'Dr.  Culbertson,'  he  says,  'won't  you  please 
to  take  my  room?'  he  says.  'Here  in  this  house,'  he 
says ;  'even  if  I  have  to  sleep  on  the  door-mat,'  he  says ; 
'like  your  faithful  servant — yea,  verily,  like  unto  a 
faithful  servant  of  the  Beating  Heart — which  I  am,' 
he  says.  And  oh-h-h,  brother ! — oh-h-h,  sister ! — when 
I  heard  these  words — issue  from  the  wa-a-rm  and  vi-ber- 
ant  soul  of  him  who  spake  them,  I  knew  that  my  mission 
to  this  town  was  blessed,  especially  with  a  dear  good 
home  like  this." 

"Why,  I  hardly  dare "  the  colonel  began. 

"I  told  Richard  I  would  accept." 

"You  didn't "  Davies  tried  to  speak. 

" — a  great  honor,"  the  colonel  was  saying.  "But 
for  one  who  has  been  entertained  by  royalty " 

"None  more  royal!"  shouted  old  Sky-Blue  with 
authority.  "None  more  royal  than  Colonel  Evan 
Williams!"  And  he  brought  his  heel  down  hard  on 
Davies's  toes  in  the  dark  of  the  stoop.  "My  beloved 
Richard,"  he  said,  with  a  shaking  voice,  "I  wish  you'd 
step  around  to  the  hotel  and  have  them  send  my  things 
around." 

"But  it's  too  late,"  Davies  gritted. 


HIGH  PRAISE  197 

"Oh,  just  my  grip  will  do.  Not  a  word,  colonel! 
Anything  that's  good  enough  for  you,  and  for  your 
dear  niece — Alvah? — is  that  not  her  name? — yes, 
I  recollect  it  now;  so  Richard  called  her — and  a  dear, 
beautiful  name  it  is!  What  was  I  saying?  Oh,  yes! 
And  Richard !  Richard !" 

"What?" 

"Peradventure,  you  can  find  some  good  soul  to  aid 
you  with  the  trunk.  And  should  the  hotel  people — 
they're  good,  hearty  folks,  but  simple — demand  their 
due,  let  them  have  it !  Let  them  have  it !  Give  them 
whatever  they  ask.  Trust  begetteth  trust.  That  has 
been  my  motto  for  fifty  year.  Yes,  I  think  that  you 
had  better  get  all  my  things  around — get  them  around 
to-night." 

"How  much  is  that  bill  going  to  be — about?"  Davies 
inquired. 

But  apparently  no  one  heard  his  question  except 
Alvah,  and  she  gave  him  an  appealing  look  through 
the  gloaming  that  sent  him,  troubled,  on  the  errand  to 
the  hotel. 

He  had  gone  possibly  only  half  a  hundred  yards 
up  the  street,  however,  when  he  heard  a  light  rush  as 
of  some  winged  thing  back  of  him.  And  there  was 
Alvah  coming  to  join  him. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

COMPENSATIONS 

SOMETHING  in  the  way  he  turned  to  meet  her  made 
her  hesitate  while  she  was  still  several  feet  away  from 
him. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

He  was  still  under  the  domination  of  the  ire  old 
Sky-Blue  had  put  into  him. 

"Professor  Culbertson,"  she  faltered,  "he  thought 
that  I'd  better  go  with  you.  I  mentioned — that  you 
weren't  on  the  best  of  terms — with  the  people  at  the 
hotel." 

Davies  was  silent.  He  was  swallowing  his  resentment, 
but  he  was  finding  it  hard  to  get  it  down. 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said  brokenly. 

Alvah,  reassured,  came  close.  The  expression  in  her 
face  was  one  of  such  bright  innocence  that  he  was  in 
despair  of  a  method  by  which  he  could  properly  express 
himself — express  his  anger,  his  anxiety. 

"Isn't  he  wonderful?"  Alvah  said. 

"Who?" 

"Professor  Culbertson." 

Silence. 

"And  he  thinks  you  are  so  wonderful." 

"Uhuh!" 

198 


COMPENSATIONS  199 

They  walked  along  for  a  space  with  the  silent  path 
under  their  feet  and  the  damp  and  fragrant  darkness 
pushing  them  closer  together. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Alvah  queried.  Her  voice  was 
small. 

"Nothing." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  come  with  you?" 

"Sure ;  that's  all  right." 

She  must  have  been  encouraged.  A  gossamer  weight 
came  out  of  the  darkness  and  rested  on  his  arm — like 
a  bird  on  a  branch — and  that  was  her  hand.  The 
touch  of  it  recalled  poignantly  to  Davies  that  first  night 
of  his  in  St.  Clair.  He  felt  somewhat  as  if  a  jagged 
hole  had  been  shot  through  the  fabric  of  this  new  life 
he  had  been  spinning.  Was  this  the  hand  of  a  mender  ? 
He  felt  as  if  it  might  be.  What  was  that  thing  old 
Bill  Emerson  had  to  say  about  compensations  ? 

Alvah's  voice  was  still  smaller  when  she  spoke  again : 

"Don't  be  blue." 

Said  Davies:  "Say,  if  any  of  those  Indians  around 
at  the  hotel  get  fresh  with  me  to-night,  I'll  just  about 
butcher  the  whole  bunch." 

"Professor  Culbertson  must  have  known,"  she  re 
plied.  "That  was  why  he  sent  me.  I'm  glad  he  did 
— and  I'm  glad  I  came — even  if  you  didn't  want  me  to 
— on  your  account.  He  loves  you.  He  loves  you  as 
much  as  Uncle  Evan  does.  Isn't  the  path  dark!" 

Davies  meditated:  This  wasn't  the  only  path  that 
was  dark. 

"When  you're  in  a  dark  place  like  this,"  said  Alvah, 


200  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"and  you  can't  see  where  you  are  putting  your  feet,  do 
you  know  what  to  do?" 

"No." 

"Don't  try  to  see  the  ground  at  all.  Just  look  up 
and  you'll  see  an  opening  between  the  trees.  See?" 

"Yes." 

"And  your  feet  will  unconsciously  keep  the  path." 

The  girl  was  right.  Looking  up,  Davies  could  see 
an  irregular  rift  of  starry  sky  between  the  overhanging 
blackness  of  the  maple-trees.  He  marveled  a  little  at 
her  country-craft.  With  his  face  turned  upward  his  feet 
went  forward  without  uncertainty,  kept  to  the  proper 
path.  Some  voice  inside  of  him  insistently  repeated: 

"When  you're  in  the  dark  look  up." 

It  was  only  gradually  that  the  purport  of  the  mes 
sage  penetrated  to  his  outer  consciousness. 

"You're  right,"  he  said;  and  there  was  no  longer 
any  hardness  in  his  voice. 

Instantly — although  she  herself  might  not  have  been 
aware  of  it — Alvah  responded  to  his  softened  mood. 
She  said  that  she  loved  the  night — loved  the  stars — 
loved  the  smell  of  the  sleeping  flowers — loved  the 
whispering  trees — loved  dear  old  Professor  Culbertson. 

What  could  Davies  say?  Nothing!  Worse  than 
nothing. 

"Don't  you?"  she  thrilled. 

"What?" 

"Just  love  dear  old  Professor  Culbertson." 

"Sure." 

"What  did  you  tell  him  about  me?" 

"Oh,  I  just  said  that  you  were  a  nice  girl." 


COMPENSATIONS  201 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"Well,  you  see  he  had  to  take  my  word  for  it.'* 

There  was  a  long  pause,  then  Alvah  spoke  with  some 
slight  vibrancy  of  an  almost  sacred  enthusiasm. 

"I  think  he  will  have  a  wonderful  influence  on  uncle 
— as  you  have  had.  Oh,  I'm  so  grateful !  It  was  so 
hard  for  uncle  when  he  was  deprived  of  all  associa 
tion  with  his  equals." 

"I'm  not  his  equal." 

Her  only  immediate  answer  was  to  look  up  at  him 
— a  glance  which  he  felt  rather  than  saw ;  and  the  feel 
ing  of  it  was  a  tiny  flood  of  warmth  which  began 
at  his  jaw  and  trickled  down  over  his  shoulder  and 
penetrated  to  his  heart.  Without  premeditation  he 
reached  over  and  touched  the  hand  on  his  arm. 

"You're  the  equal  of  any  man  in  the  world,"  she 
retorted  stoutly,  with  perfect  conviction. 

It  was  a  detached  judgment,  abstruse,  impersonal. 

"Ill  tell  you  this,"  he  responded.  "You're  the  equal 
— and  you're  more  than  the  equal — of  any  girl  in  the 
world.  You're  all  to  the  good.  If  it  wasn't  for  you, 
and  girls  like  you,  we'd  all  be  on  the  blink,  and  this 
country  certainly  would  be  on  the  blink." 

Alvah  meditated  this  declaration — did  this  reverent 
ly,  as  any  one  could  have  told  by  her  voice  when  she 
spoke  again. 

"Oh,  I  should  be  so  glad  if  what  you  say  were 
so." 

"It  is  so." 

"I  mean  about  being  of  some  use  in  the  world — of 
some  use  to  America.  And  that's  the  world;  isn't  it? 


202  IP  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

— the  world  of  so  many  thousands  and  hundreds  of 
thousands  who've  never  had  a  chance  yet  to  live  here — 
but  look  forward  to  it  almost  like  those  of  us  who  are 
here  look  forward  to  heaven.  I  think  it's  wonderful  to 
be  an  American.  Don't  you?  And,  just  think! — we're 
America — you  and  I — and  Uncle  Evan — and  dear  Pro 
fessor  Culbertson,  even  if  he  does  come  from  London, 
England!  When  you  think  of  it,  doesn't  it  just  make 
you  want  to  be  great  and  noble,  and  generous  and 
brave?" 

"I  never  thought  of  it,"  Davies  murmured. 

"Oh,  I  wish " 

But  it  expanded  so — whatever  it  was  that  Alvah 
wished — expanded  so  that  it  escaped  the  confinement  of 
words — became  a  breath  that  was  of  the  essence  of  the 
night — infinite,  limpid,  fragrant  and  pure.  And  it 
was  just  as  if  a  breath  of  wind  had  filled  the  sails  of  a 
spirit  ship  in  which  Davies  suddenly  found  himself — 
a  buoyant  spirit  bark  that  rose  with  him  out  and  up 
from  the  nether  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

POSITIVE    AND    NEGATIVE 

DA  VIES  sat  in  his  room  that  night  after  his  return 
from  the  hotel  and  gave  himself  over  to  thought.  He 
did  some  of  the  hardest  thinking  in  his  whole  career. 

"To  be,  or  not  to  be  ?"  as  the  colonel  said. 

Was  it  all  worth  while?  In  the  vernacular  that  still 
served  him  in  much  of  his  private  reflection:  Should 
he  blow  the  game,  or  should  he  stick  it  out? 

The  house  had  long  been  quiet. 

The  colonel,  with  genuine,  old-fashioned  hospitality, 
had  put  the  illustrious  Culbertson  to  bed  in  his  own 
chamber  and  had  sought  quarters  for  himself  elsewhere. 
The  colonel  gone,  Davies  had  lingered  to  see  old  Sky- 
Blue  feverishly  unstrap  his  biggest  grip  and  take  from 
it  that  quart  of  pure  malt  he  had  mentioned.  But  he 
had  merely  glanced  at  this,  shaken  his  head  fondly. 

"You're  still  there,"  he  had  said,  addressing  the 
bottle ;  "but  you'll  have  to  wait  1" 

And  he  hid  the  bottle  more  carefully  than  it  had 
been  hidden. 

"The  bill  was  six-ninety,"  Davies  had  said. 

"What  bill?" 

"The  hotel  bill." 

"And  you  paid  it?" 

203 


204  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Sure  I  paid  it — to  get  your  baggage." 

Old  Sky-Blue  had  tried  to  squirm  out  of  it,  defer 
discussion  until  the  morning.  He  was  tired.  He  was 
an  old  man.  And,  finally,  he  had  got  peevish,  lost  his 
temper.  Anyway,  he  hadn't  paid. 

Davies  asked  himself:  Was  it  fair?  Was  it? — that 
this  old  specter  should  thus  come  out  of  the  past  to 
haunt  him  and  blackmail  him? 

That  past! 

With  a  little  wave  of  despair  Davies  saw  again,  with 
the  eyes  of  his  soul,  that  supreme  picture  of  the  colonel 
and  the  colonel's  niece  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  when 
they  had  knelt  there  and  thanked  the  Almighty  for 
having  sent  him,  Davies,  as  some  sort  of  an  angelic 
messenger. 

Absurd,  of  course!  But  the  absurdity  of  it  was  a 
beautiful  thing  that  Davies  knew  now  he  had  been 
nursing  in  his  heart. 

With  tragic  comprehension,  he  saw  that  he  had  been 
aspiring  to  become  some  such  creature  as  the  colonel 
and  Alvah  had  believed  him  to  be.  A  difficult  role! 
One  that  had  caused  him  to  discipline  himself — heart 
and  brain,  eye  and  tongue — as  he  had  never  disciplined 
himself  before.  And  he  had  believed  that  he  might  suc 
ceed. 

He  blew  out  his  light.  He  went  over  and  sat  on  the 
sill  of  the  open  window.  The  perfume  of  the  dark  gar 
den  went  up  like  invisible  incense.  The  branches  of  the 
trees  pointed  upward. 

"  When  you  are  in  the  dark,  look  up." 

"Alvah,"  he  whispered. 


POSITIVE  AND  NEGATIVE  203 

She  was  everything  that  Sky-Blue  was  not.  He  pic 
tured  the  two  of  them — physically,  mentally,  spiritual 
ly  ;  and  he  saw  them  reduced  to  terms  of  power  expressi 
ble  in  two  possible  careers  that  lay  ahead  of  him: 

Sky-Blue,  with  his  offer  of  partnership — easy  money 
• — no  risk — nothing  rough  !  Why  not  ?  Hadn't  Sky- 
Blue  lived  almost  a  hundred  years?  Hadn't  he  kept  out 
of  jail?  Traveled  wherever  he  wanted  to?  Had  a 
good  time?  Wasn't  he  honored  by  all  who  knew  him, 
crooks  and  suckers  alike?  Wasn't  it  the  bishop's 
specialty  to  make  folks  feel  good  ?  And  what  was  tbere 
so  crooked  about  that?  Anyway,  what  was  there  to 
gain  by  sticking  to  the  country?  What  had  life  here 
in  St.  Clair  done  for  the  colonel,  Deacon  Crane,  Simp 
Fisher,  Tessie  Wingate? 

Then  Alvah — somehow  the  incarnation  of  a  patriotic 
song ! — that  was  Alvah ! — part  hymn,  part  chant  of  vic 
tory  ! — of  victory  after  battle !  She  was  America — 
an  America  that  was  clean  and  vigorous  and  daring — 
an  America  of  drums  and  fluttering  banners !  So  would 
his  America  be  if  he  followed  her,  though  he  followed 
her  only  in  the  spirit.  And  wasn't  this  something  better 
than  easy  money?  Wasn't  it  better  to  fight  the  fair 
fight — and  let  the  best  man  win — than  to  get  the  prize 
through  a  fake  or  a  foul? 

Old  Sky-Blue  was  on  one  side  of  him.  Alvah  Morley 
was  on  the  other.  They  were  like  contending  spirits — 
one  the  black  and  blood-red  devil's  advocate ;  the  other, 
a  winged  seraph. 

And  he  walked  between  them. 

Where  was  Tessie  Wingate  in  this  drama  of  his  life? 


£06          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Nowhere.     So  much  for  her.     She  didn't  count  at  all. 

He  saw  it  now.  The  whole  sum  and  substance  of  his 
life  was  reduced  to  a  single  choice,  and  this  choice  was 
not  as  one  between  Alvah  and  some  other  girl.  It  was 
a  choice  between  Alvah  and  Sky-Blue.  To  put  it  other 
wise:  It  was  a  choice  between  such  nights  as  this  one 
— cool,  sweet,  majestic,  silent,  and  grand;  and  such 
other  nights  as  he  had  known  back  there  in  New  York. 

Now  that  he  thought  of  it,  most  of  his  preceding  life 
had  been  but  a  series  of  nights — nights  in  the  squalor 
and  thunder  of  lower  Manhattan;  summer  and  winter 
nights,  differentiated  mostly  in  the  quality  of  human 
wretchedness,  violence,  and  vice ;  nights  in  the  fighting- 
clubs,  heavy  with  smoke  and  the  effluvia  of  unwashed 
mobs ;  nights  in  the  billiard-parlors,  the  dance-halls, 
and  the  back  rooms  of  saloons ;  nights  in  the  blaring 
and  blatant  open  of  streets  and  squares,  filled  with 
peril  and  murderous  brutalities,  with  serpent  cunning 
and  tigerish  greed. 

It  all  brought  back  to  him  that  night  of  his  interview 
with  Ezra  Wood,  and  he  was  seeing  the  old  farmer 
again,  not  as  some  one  who  had  been  bewildered  and 
helpless,  but  some  one  who  was  as  a  white  and  shining 
giant  with  power  to  shape  the  destinies  of  men — some 
one  who  was  seated  up  there  now,  looking  down  upon 
him  as  he  walked  and  wavered  with  the  devil's  advocate 
on  one  side  of  him  and  the  seraph  on  the  other. 

Could  there  be  any  doubt  as  to  the  one  to  which 
he  would  cast  his  choice? 

But  although  it  is  given  to  every  man,  now  and 
then,  as  it  was  given  to  Richard  Davies  this  night,  to 


POSITIVE  AND  NEGATIVE  207 

go  up  in  the  observation-plane  of  the  spirit,  so  to 
speak,  to  get  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  various  roads  that 
lay  ahead,  it  is  difficult  to  retain  this  clarity  of  vision 
when  the  flier  comes  back  ta  earth. 

So  Davies  found  it. 

Sitting  there  on  his  window-sill,  the  problem  had  be 
come  just  that:  Which — Sky-Blue  or  Alvah? 

And  no  later  than  the  following  morning,  here  was 
old  Sky-Blue  himself,  apparently  urging  him  to  the  side 
of  the  angels.  Sky-Blue  had  followed  Davies  to  the  gate 
where  they  could  talk  together  a  bit  in  private  out 
of  hearing  of  Alvah  and  the  colonel.  The  bishop  had 
been  all  honey  and  butter  during  breakfast,  especially 
when  addressing  Davies.  And  the  elder  still  had  his 
arm  about  the  youth  now,  when  they  came  to  the  gate. 

There  the  bishop  breathed  a  terrible  oath. 

"Why  don't  you  smile  at  me?"  he  demanded;  "show 
a  little  affection — play  the  game?  Damn  me  if  I  ever 
saw  such  an  ungrateful  purp !  How  long  do  you  think 
I  can  go  on  stallin'  about  you  lovin*  me  and  me  lovin' 
you  and  all  the  rest  of  the  bunk  if  you  don't  play  up 
to  me?" 

"I'm  not  playing  a  game,"  Davies  whispered  fiercely. 

"Never  mind  the  gas,"  the  bishop  adjured. 

"If  you  were  a  younger  man,"  said  Davies,  "I'd  soak 
you  one." 

"Oh,  you  would!" 

And  the  bishop  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  for  the 
benefit  of  those  who  might  be  looking. 

"Maybe  I  will,  anyway,"  said  Davies,  as  his  muscles 
contracted. 


208  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"You've  got  a  lot  to  learn,"  said  Sky-Blue  patiently, 
looking  up  at  the  morning.  "You've  got  a  lot  to  learn. 
Sing  Sing,  Joliet,  Danemora,  San  Quentin — they're  full 
of  boys  that  were  just  a  leetle  like  you." 

"You  ain't  got  nothin*  on  me." 

"No,  no!" 

"Then  what  you  beefin'  about?" 

"I  was  merely  thinkin'  how  nice  it  would  be  if  I  in 
vited  Solly  and  Phil  to  come  and  join  us,  out  here. 
The  colonel's  got  plenty  of  room.  And  there's  Billy 
Gin.  You  and  him  worked  together.  I  understand 
they've  turned  him  out  of  Matteawan  as  cured,  although 
I  dare  say  he  also  needs  a  breath  of  country  air." 

The  morning  was  one  of  matchless  beauty,  of  soft 
sounds  and  sparkling  fragrance.  Solly,  Phil,  Billy  Gin ! 
The  back  room  of  the  Commodore!  A  padded  cell  in 
the  great  hospital-prison  for  the  criminal  insane !  And 
the  morning  had  become  permeated  with  a  taint  of 
deadly  poison. 

"To  hell  with  you!" 

Davies's  voice  was  soft,  but  it  was  swift  and  grim. 

"Chicky!" 

The  bishop's  voice  quavered,  indicating  a  change  of 
heart. 

"Don't  call  me  that." 

"Richard!" 

"What?  Talk  quick.  I  got  to  be  beating  it.  I've 
got  my  work  to  do." 

"I'm  an  old  man,"  said  the  bishop,  with  a  manifest 
effort  to  speak  righteously.  "I've  been  drawn  to  you 


POSITIVE  AND  NEGATIVE 

as  I  was  never  drawn  to  any  one.  I'm  all  alone  in  the 
world." 

"Go  on." 

"At  this  moment  I  have  nothing  in  my  heart  but 
admiration  and  affection  for  you.  As  God  is  my  wit 
ness,  my  boy,  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  I  want  you  to 
succeed.  I'm  not  long  for  this  world.  I'll  have  enough 
to  answer  for,  when  I  stand  up  there  in  front  of  the 
Judgment  Seat,  and  they  call  my  name,  and  I  answer, 
'Here,'  and  the  angels  are  singin'  sweet  and  low." 

Davies  shot  a  side  glance  at  the  bishop.  He  wasn't 
surprised  at  what  he  saw.  The  old  man  was  still  look 
ing  up.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"Well,  what  are  you  cryin'  about?"  Davies  inquired. 
"You  started  the  rough  stuff." 

"It's  your  ingratitude,"  Sky-Blue  answered  with  an 
effort. 

"Where  do  you  get  that?" 

"Just  when  I've  been  smoothin'  everything  for  your 
weddin'." 

"My  what?" 

"Your  weddin',  Richard.  Why,  I've  got  little  Alvah 
crazy  about  you,  when  you  might  have  been  stallin* 
around  till  you  was  as  gray  as  I  am.  I  was  talkin' 
to  her  again  this  morning  while  you  was  still  asleep." 

"For  the  love  of " 

"Yes,  yes.  I  know  what  you  would  say.  You  didn't 
know  about  the  colonel  having  that  snug  little  fortune 
tucked  away.  You've  already  told  me  all  about  that. 
You  didn't  know  that  the  colonel  was  apt  to  croak 
before  long  and  leave  all  he's  got  to  the  little  maid. 


210  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Pretty  soft !  Pretty  soft  for  you,  Richard !  But  why 
do  you  try  to  crab  my  game  when  I  ain't  crabbin' 
yours — when  I'm  doin*  all  I  can  to  push  your  game 
along?  Ain't  we  friends?  Ain't  it  right  that  we  should 
love  each  other?" 

Davies  took  thought. 

This  was  no  time  for  recrimination ;  no  time  for  an 
emotional  outbreak  of  any  kind. 

He  spoke  calmly: 

"The  colonel  hasn't  got  a  sou-marquee  to  his  name." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?"  Sky-Blue  demanded  with 
equal  calm. 

"Absolutely." 

"Then,"  said  Sky-Blue,  with  a  touch  of  bewilderment, 
"what  are  you  playin'  up  to  him  so  for?" 

Before  Davies  could  answer  this  perfectly  natural 
question,  Alvah  came  skipping  down  the  path  from  the 
house.  She  merely  wanted  to  ask  whether  or  not  Dick 
would  be  home  for  dinner ;  and  he  told  her  that  he  would 
not — that  he  would  be  out  in  the  country  all  day. 

But  there  they  stood,  side  by  side,  just  as  he  had 
visioned  them  the  night  before — old  Sky-Blue  and  Alvah 
— the  devil's  advocate  and  the  seraph — and  the  devil's 
advocate  had  been  urging  him  to  take  the  seraph  for  a 
bride. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

A1.VAH    LISTENS 

THEY  lingered  for1  a  while  at  the  gate,  the  girl  and  the 
illustrious  Professor  Culbertson,  as  Davies  went  off 
down  the  verdant  street. 

"A  fine  young  man,"  breathed  the  professor.  He 
turned  and  looked  at  Alvah.  He  solemnly  repeated  his 
judgment:  "A  fine  young  man.  But  headstrong!  But 
headstrong!  Do  you  know  what's  been  ailing  him  to 
make  him  act  so  sort  of  sullen  with  me?" 

"I  hadn't  noticed  it,"  replied  Alvah  brightly. 

"I  have,  and  it's  hurt  me.  But  he'll  get  over  it,  dear 
boy ;  and  it  will  merely  increase  that  bond  of  love  which 
unites  us  so  strongly  already.  Headstrong!  But  lov 
able!" 

"What  was  it?" 

"It  was  this,"  Sky-Blue  answered,  ready  to  testify 
to  the  whole  truth  and  all  the  details  thereof.  "As  you 
probably  know,  I  am  aimin'  to  crown  my  life's  work  by 
foundin'  the  Beating  Heart  Seminary — out  in  Wichita 
— where  my  dear  sister  resides — a  wonderful  woman, 
and  a  godly — and  the  inspiration  of  my  life.  Oh-h-h, 
how  she  has  sustained  me  when  some  dear  one  was  un 
grateful!  But  that  is  the  penalty  of  good  deeds,  my 
child.  Ingratitude!  I  am  old.  I  am  poor.  But  there!" 

211 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Sky-Blue  used  his  handkerchief. 

"You  were  telling  me  about  Richard,"  Alvah  shyly 
reminded  him. 

"Well,  I  was  tellin'  him  what  I  am  tellin'  you.  I 
mentioned  the  Beating  Heart  Seminary.  I  mentioned 
it  as  the  dream  of  my  declinin'  days.  I  mentioned  that 
I  intended  to  give  ten  or  a  dozen  lectures  here  in  this 
dear  community — free  gratis  and  without  price — and 
then  if  the  good  souls  wanted  to  give  somethin'  toward 
the  Beating  Heart  Seminary — you've  heard  about  it, 
read  about  it  in  the  public  prints.  No?  Well,  you're 
young.  I  can  remedy  that." 

"Hadn't  he  heard  about  it  either?" 

"Who?" 

She  colored  slightly  under  Sky-Blue's  twinkling  gaze. 

"Richard." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  just  as  I  was  tellin'  him.  Law 
yers,  doctors,  ministers,  bankers — they've  all  been  a 
waitin'  and  a  prayin'  for  me  to  speak  the  word.  But 
I've  refused  to  speak  the  word.  They've  come  to  me 
with  their  love-offerings,  and  their  fees,  and  their  collec 
tions,  and  their  bank-books,  and  have  cast  these  at 
my  feet.  Oh-h-h,  the  response!  But  I'd  say:  'No! 
Take  back  your  money!  Give  it  to  the  institoots  and 
colleges  that  depend  on  such  as  you!  The  Beating 
Heart,'  I'd  say  'will  be  a  monument  to  them  as  have  been 
denied  these  grea-a-t  channels  of  eely-mo-sinary  out- 
pourin'.  No,  no !  Take  back  your  money !' ' 

"And  what  did  Richard  say  to  that?" 

"Well,  I  was  sayin'  to  him  how  I  was  confmin'  dona 
tions  to  such  dear  souls  as  we  have  here  in  St.  Clair — to 


ALVAH  LISTENS 

you,  sweet  child,  and  peradventure  to  your  uncle — and 
Richard  speaks  up,  manly  like,  and  he  says,  says  he: 
'Professor  Culbertson,  I  want  to  do  my  share/  I  just 
looked  at  him,  and  he  kind  of  blushed.  'Fifty  dollars,' 
he  says.  'What  for?'  I  asked.  He  wriggles.  'Put  it 
down  in  her  name,'  he  says.  'Whose  name  ?*  He  looks 
away.  And  whose  name  do  you  suppose  he  whispered  ?" 

Sky-Blue  reached  out  and  gently  tweaked  Alvah's 
ear. 

"Maybe  he  didn't  want  you  to  tell  me  this,"  said  Al- 
vah,  slightly  stifled. 

"He  didn't,  but  I  told  him  that  I  would,"  Sky-Blue 
announced  benevolently.  He  chuckled  to  himself. 
"That's  what  got  him  peeved.  You  see,  he  thinks 
that  your  uncle  is  poor!" 

"There's  Uncle  Evan  now,"  said  Alvah  breathlessly, 
and  she  skipped  away. 

"I  thought  so !  I  thought  so !"  Sky-Blue  communed 
acutely  with  himself,  after  she  was  gone.  "When  it 
comes  to  gettin'  a  line  on  the  old  man's  money,  she 
stalls  just  like  Chick  did." 

He  waved  a  fraternal  hand  to  Colonel  Williams  who 
had  just  come  around  the  corner  of  the  house.  The 
colonel  was  going  to  the  post-office,  and  was  possibly 
hoping  to  make  the  trip  accompanied  by  his  eminent 
guest.  The  colonel  had  on  his  Mobile  coat.  There 
was  a  certain  suggestion  of  wealth  and  well-being  about 
him.  There  was  no  denying  it. 

"He's  rich,  all  right,"  Sky-Blue  muttered  complac 
ently. 

But  Alvah  was  speeding  up  the  path  like  a  bird.     She 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

kissed  her  uncle  lightly  on  the  cheek  as  she  passed  him. 
She  disappeared  into  the  house.  There  she  came  to 
a  fluttering  halt,  in  the  dusky  hall. 

She  was  loved.     Richard  loved  her. 

She  loved.     She  loved  Richard. 

And  the  formula  of  her  life,  of  the  world,  and  of  God 
and  his  angels,  was  reduced  to  this — no,  expanded  into 
this. 

Oh,  what  if  he  should  tell  her  so,  and  what  if  she 
should  tell  him  so !  Would  it  ever  come  to  that?  Would 
there  ever  be — could  there  ever  be — in  this  life  such 
a  degree  of  delicious  intimacy  between  them,  that  they 
could  speak  to  each  other  freely  of  this  sacred  theme? 

Oh,  Richard !  Oh,  dear  Uncle  Evan,  who  had  brought 
Richard  into  her  life!  Oh,  dear,  dear  Professor  Cul- 
bertson  who  had  revealed  to  her  this  majestic  advent! 

She  went  up  the  stairs  to  her  room  on  the  second 
floor.  The  furniture  in  it  was  sparse  and  decrepit,  but 
faintly  pretty,  rather  touching,  covered  with  chintz. 
There  was  a  good  mirror  though.  She  went  to  it.  She 
looked  at  her  reflection  as  at  the  reflection  of  some 
one  she  had  never  seen  before. 

There  must  have  been  some  sort  of  a  transformation 
— a  hint  of  transfiguration.  Mounting  color,  eyes  of 
a  depth  and  a  brightness,  lips  that  were  parted  and 
pink — yet  all  this  contributory  to  an  expression  that 
was  a  balance  of  joy  and  pain. 

And  joy  and  pain  were  what  she  felt. 

She  couldn't  understand  it  at  all.  Why  should  her 
heart  have  ached  when  all  creation  was  a  swirl  of  glad 
ness  ? 


ALVAH  LISTENS  215 

Perhaps  her  hair  was  drawn  back  a  bit  too  severely 
from  her  forehead.  Her  forehead  was  a  little  too  high 
anyway.  She  loosened  her  hair.  She  fluffed  it  forward. 
Atrocious !  She  tried  it  again.  That  was  better.  A 
wave  to  one  side. 

To  have  seen  her,  one  would  have  been  justified  in 
the  belief  that  she  had  been  engaged  in  labors  like  this 
for  years. 

While  she  was  leaning  forward,  without  the  slightest 
premonition  of  what  was  to  follow,  she  discovered  that 
there  was  a  tear  in  her  eye.  She  smiled  at  it.  She 
brushed  it  away.  But  there  was  another  to  take  its 
place. 

Suddenly,  there  was  no  holding  them  back  at  all, 
those  tears ;  and  the  aching  in  her  heart  had  mounted 
to  her  throat.  And  she  fairly  tottered  to  her  little 
chintz-covered  bed  and  threw  herself  upon  it,  curled 
up  and  face  down,  and  wishing  that  she  could  die  like 
that  before  the  world  could  show  itself  to  be  something 
less  killingly  glad. 

It  may  have  been  half  an  hour  later  when  she  heard 
her  uncle  and  his  illustrious  guest  return  from  their 
stroll  to  the  post-office.  They  established  themselves  on 
the  front  stoop,  chatting  with  the  dignified  confratern 
ity  of  their  age  and  sex. 

She  ran  down  to  the  library  and  looked  out  at  them. 

Then  she  saw  Mrs.  Meckley  come  across  the  street, 
fond  but  embarrassed.  And  Mrs.  Meckley  was  bearing 
a  covered  dish.  She  skittered  up  the  path. 

"I  thought  you'd  like  to  taste  my  custard!"  cried 
Mrs.  Meckley. 


216  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Wasn't  the  whole  world  changed?  Wasn't  the  whole 
world  better  for  the  presence  of  dear  old  Professor 
Culbertson? 

Alvah  went  out,  and  Mrs.  Meckley  smiled  at  her  as 
Alvah  took  the  dish.  Sky-Blue  had  moved  over  and 
invited  the  sister  to  sit  down,  and  Sister  Meckley  was 
in  a  tremor  of  happiness. 

"I  can  only  stay  a  moment,"  she  said,  very  agitated. 

And  Mrs.  Meckley  hadn't  visited  them  for  years.  And 
Mrs.  Meckley  hadn't  been  there  fifteen  minutes  before 
Judge  Berry's  aristocratic  wife  drove  up  in  her  four- 
seated  phaeton  to  invite  the  colonel  and  the  professor 
for  a  ride. 

Wasn't  everything  just  wonderful? 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

INTO    THE    DEPTHS 

BUT  Davies  himself  went  away  from  the  colonel's 
Flowery  Harbor  with  a  peculiar  conflict  of  joy  and 
grief  going  on  inside  of  him — a  sort  of  laboring  aspira 
tion,  as  if  his  spirit  were  a  pigeon  with  a  pebble  tied 
to  its  foot.  There  was  a  parallel  to  this  in  the  very 
atmosphere — stainless  and  sparkling  as  to  its  physical 
aspect,  yet  shot  through  with  that  taint  of  poison  old 
Sky-Blue,  like  a  wicked  alchemist,  had  put  there. 

He  tried  to  doctor  himself,  doctor  the  atmosphere — 
tried  to  free  his  spiritual  pigeon  from  the  weight  that 
held  it  down.  He  tried  to  do  this  with  argument. 

Was  there  anything  in  the  world  to  cause  him  dis 
tress?  Was  there?  Wasn't  his  New  York  record  clean 
so  far  as  the  law  was  concerned?  Wasn't  Sky-Blue 
merely  bluffing  in  his  talk  about  Sing  Sing  and  other 
prisons  ?  Wouldn't  the  ancient  crook  have  as  much  to 
fear  as  any  one  from  an  incursion  of  Solly  and  Phil 
and  their  like? 

And  he  himself,  Richard  Davies,  wasn't  he  living 
strictly  on  the  level?  Wasn't  he  beginning  to  make 
both  money  and  reputation  for  himself?  Wasn't  he 
keeping  himself  as  clean  as  the  soap  which  he  continued 
to  sell?  And  wasn't  his  new  line  of  insurance  work 

217 


218  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

causing  him  to  meet  all  manner  of  good  people  ?  Weren't 
they  accepting  him  more  and  more  as  one  of  themselves 
and  teaching  him  betimes  their  manners,  their  speech, 
and  their  habits  of  thought? 

He  could  render  a  satisfactory  answer  to  all  these 
questions — could  do  this  with  certainty  and  without 
equivocation. 

But  his  trouble  remained. 

Something  happened  that  made  it  worse. 

He  hadn't  gone  very  far  before  he  saw  his  old  friend, 
Constable  Winch,  lounging  about  a  corner,  and  the 
constable  had  the  appearance  of  waiting  for  him.  The 
constable  grinned  at  Davies,  but  back  of  the  grin  there 
was  a  lurking  something  that  Davies  didn't  like;  and, 
there  for  a  moment  or  two,  Davies  caught  a  miasmic 
gust  of  disquiet  that  was  almost  fear.  Had  the  bishop 
been  dropping  remarks  elsewhere?  Had  the  constable 
been  hearing  things? 

"Hello!"  drawled  Winch. 

"Hello!     How  are  you?'* 

"Fair  to  middling.  Understand  Professor  Culbert- 
son's  stoppin'  down  to  your  place  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Friend  of  yours?" 

Davies  reflected.  Maybe  the  constable  had  heard 
something  about  the  bishop.  The  reflection  didn't  take 
very  long.  Well,  if  that  were  the  case,  he  wasn't  going 
to  desert  the  old  man. 

"Yes,  he's  a  friend  of  mine,'*  he  replied. 

The  constable  delivered  himself  of  a  slight  snort  of 
satisfaction.  So  much  was  settled.  He  was  now  ready 


INTO  THE  DEPTHS  219 

to  proceed  to  the  next  stage  of  the  campaign  he  had 
in  mind.  He  drawled  the  preliminary  bombardment  in 
a  high  nasal. 

"I  was  wonderin'  if  you  couldn't  lend  me  a  five-spot  ?" 

"Lend  you  five  dollars  ?" 

"That's  about  the  size  of  it." 

"What  the  matter — they  been  holding  up  your  pay?'* 

The  constable  didn't  answer  immediately. 

It  may  have  been  just  imagination,  but  it  struck 
Davies  that  the  thing  lurking  behind  the  surface  of  the 
constable's  mien  and  speech  became  definitely  a  menace 
• — -at  least  a  threat. 

"No,  I  can't  say  that  they  been  holdin'  up  my  pay," 
he  answered.  "I  was  a  little  short.  Thought  you 
might  oblige  me." 

"I'm  short  myself,"  said  Davies. 

"Thought  maybe  you  wouldn't  want  me  to  talk  to 
Professor  Culbertson.  Understand  he's  got  a  high 
opinion  of  you.  Like  all  of  us !  Like  all  of  us  !" 

"Talk  to  him  about  what?" 

The  constable  disguised  his  real  meaning  with  an 
artificial  laugh.  He  was  keeping  his  eyes  averted. 

"About  your  sellin*  soap  without  a  license  and  then 
sneakin'  my  badge.  But  shucks !  I  don't  give  a  dern. 
Only,  since  we  was  friends  and,  as  the  old  sayin'  says, 
one  good  turn  deserves  another." 

"I  can  let  you  have  a  two,"  said  Davies. 

He  wanted  to  be  alone  with  his  thoughts.  That  peb 
ble  on  the  pigeon's  foot  had  become  a  rock.  The  con 
stable  had  slipped  immediately  into  a  state  of  stable 
equipoise.  He  was  at  peace.  His  eyes  were  alert  and 


220  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

eager  as  he  kept  them  on  Davies's  pocket-hand.  Davies 
passed  over  the  money. 

"You  ought  to  be  in  a  larger  town,"  said  Davies 
coolly.  "You're  wasting  your  talents  on  a  little  place 
like  this." 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Winch.  "One  of  these  automobile 
fellers  told  me  the  same  thing  no  later'n  yesterday." 
He  took  a  second  thought.  "Say,"  he  demanded,  "you 
wasn't  intendin'  no  double  meanin'  in  that  remark  of 
yours,  was  you?" 

"No." 

"Wasn't  meanin'  that  I  was  like  some  of  these  here 
slick  New  York  constables  you  hear  about?" 

"Not  on  your  life!" 

"Because,"  said  Winch,  "I  just  heard  somethin'  con- 
cernin'  you — thought  maybe  you'd  like  to  hear." 

"What  was  it?" 

"I  ain't  sure  I  got  a  legal  right  to  tell." 

"Something  connected  with  the  law?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  constable  with  a  side-long  glance 
of  his  sly  and  bright  little  eyes.  "Not  yet,  but  it's 
goin'  to  be." 

Davies  mentally  held  his  breath.  He  was  in  a  mood 
to  believe  almost  anything.  And  yet,  even  then  his 
curiosity  was  not  centered  so  much  on  what  the  con 
stable  might  be  driving  at  as  to  the  proper  answer  of 
that  question  which  had  obsessed  him  more  or  less  ever 
since  his  arrival  in  St.  Clair:  Should  he  go,  or  should 
lie  remain?  Should  he  run,  or  should  he  fight? 

Anyway,  the  alternative  of  a  quick  disappearance 


INTO  THE  DEPTHS  221 

from  St.  Clair  encouraged  him  to  express  some  of  the 
bitterness,  at  least,  that  was  in  his  heart. 

"Say !"  he  exclaimed.     "What  in  the " 

He  paused,  but  his  flash  was  so  savage  that  the  con 
stable  was  at  once  intent  to  mollify  him. 

"Simp  Fisher,"  he  whispered,  "he's  goin'  to  sue  you." 

"What  for?" 

"Criminal  damages." 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about." 

"Why,  Simp's  been  havin*  tooth  trouble  ever  since 
you  h'isted  him  one  in  the  jaw,  and  now  he's  got  a 
lawyer — maybe  you've  see  him — handsome  young  fel 
low  who's  runnin'  around  with  Tessie  Wingate.  You 
see,  Simp  was  sort  of  jealous  of  the  lawyer,  I  guess — 
been  aimin*  to  win  Tessie  for  himself — Simp's  got  a 
rich  uncle  over  near  Dartown — stands  to  come  in  for 
a  right  smart  lot  of  money  some  day — so  Tessie  to 
sort  of  bring  the  lawyer — Peebles — that's  his  name — 
Harold  Peebles — to  sort  of  bring  Peebles  and  Simp 
together  and  keep  everything  smooth  and  pleasant  got 
Simp  to  give  Harold  this  case — and  Harold,  he  says 
he's  goin'  to  press  it  because — it  ain't  none  of  my  busi 
ness,  you  understand,  and  I'm  just  tellin'  you  this  out 
of  pure  friendship  you  might  say — because  some  one 
told  Harold  that  they  saw  you  kiss  Tessie  Wingate  at 
the  bottom  of  the  steps  over  there  in  the  town  hall." 

"I'll  paste  Harold  one,  too,"  Davies  announced  with 
decision. 

The  constable  laughed. 

"Better  not,"  he  said.  "They're  tricky— these  law 
yers.  Why,  they  wouldn't  give  a  dern  if  you  did  smack 


222  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

their  chops  if  they  thought  they  could  get  a  case 
against  ye.  No  sense  of  pride.  No  sense  of  honor." 

It  was  Davies's  turn  to  laugh.  He  laughed  bit 
terly. 

Wasn't  the  whole  world  pretty  small  and  contempt 
ible?  Why  should  a  fellow  try  to  make  himself  any 
different? 

He  gave  his  mood  free  rein. 

The  scales  had  fallen  from  his  eyes,  and  he  was  see 
ing  the  truth — seeing  it  naked  and  ugly — a  grinning 
skeleton  disinterred  from  all  earthly  experience.  The 
earth  was  a  graveyard.  He  saw  it  now.  It  was  a 
graveyard  in  which  he  himself  had  buried  deeds,  and 
thoughts,  and  dreams.  And  now  these  were  rising  up 
to  squeak  and  gibber. 

A  fellow  was  an  idiot  to  fight  against  a  phantom  host 
like  that. 

He  had  no  heart  at  all,  either  for  his  soap  or  his  in 
surance.  Instead  of  going  to  the  livery  stable,  there 
fore,  he  ambled  out  into  the  country  on  foot,  not  car 
ing  very  much  where  he  went — just  so  long  as  he  could 
be  by  himself,  away  from  the  curse  of  human  society. 

But  his  bad  luck  followed  him. 

Along  toward  noon,  when  he  was  feeling  hungry  and 
when,  also,  he  was  beginning  to  get  about  his  fill  of  soli 
tude,  he  applied  at  a  farmhouse  for  dinner. 

The  house  was  far  back  from  any  road,  and  the 
farmer  and  his  wife  were  both  elderly  and  strange. 
But  they  invited  him  in.  It  was  not  until  then  that  he 
discovered  they  were  the  parents  of  a  gangling,  half- 


INTO  THE  DEPTHS 

witted  son.  And  the  half-wit  grinned  at  him  like  one 
of  those  gibbering  ghosts  become  incarnate. 

Eventually  free  of  the  farmhouse,  Davies  struck 
back  in  the  direction  of  St.  Clair. 

His  bitterness  had  turned  to  quiet  grief  by  this  time. 
He  had  come  to  his  decision.  It  had  been  foolish  of 
him  not  to  have  come  to  this  decision  before.  Still, 
it  didn't  matter.  Nothing  mattered.  But  the  decision 
was  this: 

He  would  return  to  New  York. 

Yes ;  he  would  go  back  there  and  warn  any  other  mis 
guided  youth — Phil,  for  instance — against  the  folly  of 
seeking  better  surroundings  elsewhere  than  right  where 
he  was.  Himself  he  would  plunge  into  fresh  whirlpools 
of  wickedness — taking  risks  he  had  never  taken  before, 
taking  no  more  count  of  the  generous  impulses  that 
had  been  his,  and  not  caring  what  happened  to  him. 
Prison  itself  would  be  a  relief  after  the  rottenness  of 
the  outside  world.  Perhaps,  even,  he  would  do  some 
thing  that  would  bring  him  to  "the  chair" — and  that 
would  be  best  of  all. 

He  came  into  a  familiar  road  near  St.  Clair.  He 
turned  into  a  thicket  where  he  knew  there  was  a  spring 
— a  spring  which  Alvah  Morley  had  shown  him  just  a 
couple  of  days  ago.  And  he  would  have  drawn  back. 

For  there  was  Alvah  herself. 

But  Alvah  had  seen  him,  too — recognized  him,  with 
startled  joy. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE    HIGH    TOWEB 

"HELLO  !"  he  said.  "What  are  you  doing  'way  out 
here?" 

She  answered  him  with  a  little  wilting  movement, 
looked  back  at  the  clear  water  of  the  spring. 

"Had  a  drink?"  he  asked. 

"I  wasn't  thirsty,"  she  answered.  "I  just  felt  home 
sick  for  the  spring.  You — see,  I  used  to  come  here 
when  I  was  a  little  girl." 

"A  thousand  years  ago!'* 

"When  my  mother  was  still  alive." 

She  rinsed  a  rusty  can,  filled  it,  passed  it  to  him,  and 
he  drank. 

They  were  silent. 

Davies  was  glad  to  see  the  girl,  but  not  particularly 
so.  He  was  still  as  much  engrossed  by  his  personal 
distemper  as  he  was  by  her  presence — more  so,  possibly. 
He  was  only  indifferently  aware  that  she  may  also  have 
been  bearing  an  invisible  pack  of  care,  her  moods  and 
manners  were  so  often  sober.  And,  for  a  while,  she 
seemed  to  be  under  the  spell  of  that  melancholy  allusion 
she  had  made  to  her  mother.  Davies  had  heard  from 
the  colonel  that  Alvah's  mother  was  a  gracious  lady, 
beautiful  and  young  at  the  time  cf  her  death. 

224 


THE  HIGH  TOWER  225 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  somewhat  aimless  musings 
that  possessed  him,  Alvah  turned  slightly,  still  more 
slightly  smiled.  It  was  an  odd  smile — one  that  made 
him  ask: 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"I  was  thinking — thinking  about  that  fifty  dollars 
you  wanted  to  subscribe  to  the  Beating  Heart  Semi 
nary." 

"I  didn't " 

She  shook  her  head  fondly,  still  smiled  slightly. 

"Professor  Culbertson  told  me  all  about  it,"  she  in 
formed  him,  gently.  "I  hope  you  won't  deny  it.  I 
was  very  proud.  I  haven't  so  very  much  to  cheer  me 
up." 

"What  did  he  tell  you?" 

Bit  by  bit  he  got  the  information  from  her — the  pur 
port  and  a  little  more  besides — of  that  conversation 
of  the  morning.  He  said : 

"Professor  Culbertson  shouldn't  deceive  you  like 
that.  I'm  going  away." 

"You — are — going  away,  Richard?" 

"Yes." 

Not  a  sign  from  either  of  them  to  indicate  all  that 
this  may  have  meant  in  the  lives  of  both  of  them. 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"You  were  returning  home  for  that?" 

"That — and  partly  because  I'd  lost  heart." 

"There's  no  train  till  to-morrow." 

"I'll  walk." 


226  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Good-by,  Richard." 

And  she  offered  him  her  hand. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  walk  home  with  me?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  away.     He  spoke  again: 

"I  expected  to  see  you  at  the  house."  He  took  her 
hand. 

"Ill  go  back  to  the  house  with  you,'*  she  said  kindly, 
but  without  another  apparent  emotion.  "I  will,  if  you 
want  me  to." 

"Where  were  you  going?" 

"Up  the  hill." 

She  waved  her  hand  to  the  slope  that  here  swelled 
up  from  the  road — a  rounded  hill,  chiefly  in  pasture, 
with  its  grass  cropped  short,  but  tufted  here  and  there 
with  gnarled  bouquets  of  stunted  trees. 

"What's  up  there?" 

An  explanatory  gesture  that  explained  nothing. 

'Til  go  with  you." 

He  didn't  quite  understand  it,  this  mood  of  hers.  He 
may  have  guessed  that  she  was  sorry  to  hear  that  he 
was  going  away,  but  she  hadn't  made  the  situation  worse 
by  protestations.  He  felt  a  little  disquieted.  But 
it  was  on  her  account.  In  the  presence  of  her  calm 
any  troubles  he  himself  may  have  had  seemed  trivial. 

She  hadn't  spoken. 

"Do  you  care  if  I  go  with  you?" 

"I'd  be  glad,"  she  said. 

They  went  up  out  of  the  hollow  of  the  spring  and  the 
low  valley  of  the  road.  The  hill  was  bold,  and  the 
country,  for  miles  around,  was  open.  And  the  air  was 
of  a  purity  that  rendered  even  small  details  brilliant 


THE  HIGH  TOWER  227 

and  distinct  far  away — black  and  white  cattle  in  a  field ; 
two  men  at  work  on  an  unfinished  bridge  over  the  river, 
at  what  seemed  a  tremendous  distance  below ;  St.  Clair 
in  the  distance,  with  the  three  church-steeples,  and  the 
school-house  cupola,  and  Judge  Berry's  new  water- 
tank,  all  sticking  up  so  vividly  among  the  trees  that 
one  could  almost  have  counted  the  nail-holes. 

Like  that,  the  earth  was  brilliant  mosaic,  composed 
of  a  million  details,  each  detail  sharply  defined,  strik 
ingly  colored. 

Half-way  to  the  swelling  crest  they  paused  and 
looked. 

"How  different  the  earth  and  the  sky !"  said  Alvah. 

"All  blue,"  said  Davies,  his  face  uplifted. 

"Except  for  those  few  white  clouds." 

"And  the  earth  looks  little  and  the  sky  looks  big,'* 
said  Davies. 

They  walked  on  and  on,  mounting  steadily  higher, 
and  in  a  great  silence  that  was  merely  touched  up  by, 
so  to  speak,  the  high-lights  of  silence — a  song  spar 
row's  trill,  very  remote ;  and,  remoter  yet,  the  intermit 
tent  tinkle  of  a  cow-bell;  and,  from  the  greatest  dis 
tance  of  all,  the  echo  of  those  last  oddly  detached 
words  of  theirs. 

For,  as  yet,  neither  had  spoken  his  or  her  thought; 
and  they  knew  this;  and  they  were  anxious  for  such 
speech  to  begin  yet  afraid  to  set  it  going. 

At  last,  they  were  over  the  last  slope,  and  there  they 
were  as  if  on  the  top  of  an  observatory.  It  might 
as  well  have  been  Pikes  Peak — for  any  limit  to  their 
range  of  vision.  There  was  a  dizzy  expanse.  There 


<W8  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

was  a  sense  of  flight.  They  sat  down  on  an  ancient, 
fallen  trunk,  bleached  white  by  time. 

They  looked  away,  they  were  silent — each  vividly  con 
scious  of  the  other's  presence. 

"I'm  glad  I  met  you,"  said  Davies  at  last. 

It  was  in  his  heart  to  tell  Alvah  why  he  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  go  away,  but  he  had  difficulty  in  finding  the 
words.  Somehow,  it  seemed  to  him  that  those  troubles 
of  his — so  great  and  burdensome  a  little  while  ago — 
had  vanished  into  nothingness — like  the  recent  mosaic 
of  the  earth — nothing  visible  here  but  the  infinite  blue. 
He  looked  at  her.  She  still  had  her  profile  to  him,  and 
what  he  saw  dismissed  from  his  mind  utterly  even  the 
remaining  vapors  of  what  he  had  started  out  to  say. 

There  was  an  impact  against  his  consciousness  as  the 
thought  lodged  there  that  Alvah  was  beautiful. 

Hitherto,  he  had  considered  her  merely  as  good,  as 
brave,  as  admirable  from  a  fraternal  point  of  view. 
But  now,  forgetful  of  his  wonder,  he  found  himself  con 
sidering  her  delicate  refinement  of  brow  and  nose,  of 
chin  and  throat;  that  commingling  of  sadness  and  hu 
mor  in  her  gray  eyes  and  curving  lips  that  suggested 
more  than  anything  her  relationship  with  the  colonel. 
Most  of  all,  though,  he  noticed  her  marble-white  temple 
gleaming  through  a  web  of  hair  such  as  he  had  never 
noticed  about  her  before. 

The  temple  spoke  to  him,  like  something  endowed 
with  a  voice,  and  this  voice  to  be  registered  only  by  the 
ears  of  his  innermost  being. 

Davies  was  Welsh ;  and  they  say  the  Welsh  are  mys 
tics. 


THE  HIGH  TOWER  239 

"Here  resides  wisdom,'*  said  the  voice;  "and  here 
resides  purity ;  and  here  resides  courage  and  vision,  con 
stancy,  and  faith.  All  these,  and  more,  reside  beyond 
the  white  wall  of  this  girl's  temple,  gossamered  with 
its  filaments  of  gold." 

"My  God !"  said  Davies,  with  reverence,  bending  the 
knees  of  his  soul — but  otherwise  making  neither  sound 
rior  movement ;  "and  she  once  put  her  hand  on  my  arm 
— told  me  I  was  the  equal  of  any  man !" 

Alvah  spoke : 

"And  I'm  glad  that  I  met  you." 

"I'm  not  so  sure  that  I'm  going  away,"  he  blurted. 
"Alvah!" 

She  turned  to  look  at  him.  She  drew  slightly  back. 
But  he  leaned  forward. 

"Richard  f     What's  the  matter?" 

"Don't  you  know?" 

His  face  was  slightly  forward.  His  dark  eyes 
glowed  up  at  her.  He  had  dropped  his  hat  on  the 
grass,  and  Alvah  noticed  that  his  brow  was  damp.  She 
worked  a  small  handkerchief  from  her  sleeve  and  started 
to  touch  his  forehead. 

He  put  his  arms  about  her.  He  was  fearful  of  using 
his  strength,  she  was  so  slender,  so  unprepared. 

Her  temple  was  close  to  his  lips. 

He  barely  touched  the  fine  strands  of  hair  that  cov 
ered  it,  but  his  lips  remained  there,  second  after  sec 
ond,  while  the  silence  took  on  life,  as  though  it  were 
shot  through  and  through  with  tiny  floating  strands  of 
music. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

PARDON 

BUT  gradually — not  too  gradually — swiftly  enough 
— these  strands  of  music  were  underlaid  with  a  booming 
strain  of  remorse.  Here  came  the  ghost-march  out  of 
his  past  and  the  specters  had  a  brass-band.  There 
was  even  a  ghost  of  Tessie  Wingate  there — the  girl  he 
had  kissed  not  twenty-four  hours  ago.  She  loomed  as 
large  as  the  ghost  of  Solly,  the  ghost  of  Phil,  of  Billy 
Gin,  of  old  Sky-Blue. 

He  spoke  rapidly — pressed  for  time — as  one  in  dan 
ger  of  being  overtaken  by  the  advancing  army.  ' 

"Alvah!" 

"Dick!" 

"I  love  you." 

"I  guessed — I  knew." 

"But  I  haven't  any  right." 

"Oh,  Dick,  to  love  is  everybody's  right." 

"But  I'm  bad — have  been  bad — am  bad  yet.  My 
God!" 

He  kissed  her  on  the  lips,  briefly,  with  awe  beating 
its  wings  about  the  two  of  them.  She  drew  away  from 
him,  startled,  yet  tender. 

"You're  not  bad,"  she  chided. 

"I  am.     I've  got  to  tell " 

230 


PARDON 

"Don't  tell  me  anything.     The  past  doesn't  matter." 

"I'm  worried." 

"Leave  that  to  women." 

She  succumbed  again  to  the  look  in  his  eyes,  the 
movement  of  his  hands.  This  time,  he  clung  to  her  a 
little  longer.  She  was  giving  him  a  strength,  by  this 
mere  contact  with  her,  as  a  young  mother  might  give 
strength  and  nourishment — for  body  and  soul — to  a 
child. 

The  booming  of  the  ghost-army  was  no  longer  so 
loud.  Davies  was  at  least  able  to  think. 

There  was  a  taste  on  his  lips  and  a  fragrance  about 
himself  that  recalled  to  his  mind  some  concept  of  a 
shriven  sinner.  Yet,  how  could  he  be  shriven  if  he 
hadn't  confessed?  Desperately  eager  he  was  to  keep 
this  new  thing  he  had  discovered  in  the  world — that  he 
was !  And  for  that  very  reason  was  he  desperately 
afraid  to  lose  this  prize — lose  it  on  a  foul. 

Alvah  looked  at  him.     He  looked  at  her. 

Their  sight  intermingled  in  a  twisted  column  of  white 
flame  that  went  straight  upward. 

Then  Davies,  without  thought,  without  premedita 
tion,  went  down  on  one  knee  and  his  face  was  on  Al- 
vah's  knees,  there  where  she  sat  on  the  white  old  log. 
And  there  was  nothing  in  the  least  self-conscious  about 
it.  Just  reverent,  and  chivalrous — that  is  what  it  was ; 
as  any  one  with  imagination  could  have  told — by  the 
silence  of  the  earth,  the  purity  of  the  sky,  and  the  look 
in  Alvah  Morley's  face. 

She  held  his  hands.  She  stroked  his  hair.  Once, 
she  leaned  over  until  he  was  enveloped  in  the  warmth 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

of  her  breath  and  her  bosom  and  he  felt  a  yet  lighter 
touch  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

He  went  into  a  species  of  sleep — the  sweetest,  most 
wonderful  sort  of  sleep — if  sleep  it  could  be  called — 
that  he  had  ever  known.  Anyway,  it  was  an  abeyance 
of  all  ordinary  physical  sensation  and  of  ordinary 
thought.  At  the  same  time,  it  was  an  awakening  of  finer 
senses — like  the  senses  of  some  finer,  nobler  body  only 
just  now  stirred  to  consciousness — as  of  some  new 
Adam  coming  out  of  the  earth,  in  response  to  the  fiat 
of  Creation — and  this  Adam  not  yet  fallen — still  of  the 
substance  and  in  the  image  of  God. 

A  great  calm  possessed  him. 

This  did  not  leave  him  even  after  he  opened  his  eyes 
and  so  to  speak,  reentered  the  body  and  the  sphere  to 
which  he  was  habituated. 

They  had  this  top  of  the  world  all  to  themselves. 
They  were  as  much  alone,  for  the  time  being,  as  Adam 
and  Eve  could  have  been  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  And 
now  Davies,  like  the  father  of  men,  looked  at  Alvah 
as  at  some  one  and  something  that  had  been  expired 
from  his  very  soul — an  incarnation  of  all  that  he  had 
ever  aspired  to  in  the  matter  of  cleanliness,  honor, 
beauty,  faith. 

"Without  you,"  he  said  softly,  "I'll  go  to  hell.  No ! 
I'd  be  already  there." 

She  lowered  her  head. 

"Go  to  sleep  again,"  she  whispered.  "Go  to  sleep 
again  with  your  head  on  my  knees.  Wait,  I'll  sit  down 
on  the  grass  with  my  back  to  the  log." 

"It's  heaven  with  you,"  he  said. 


PARDON  233 

"Shut  your  eyes.     I  won't  let  anything  hurt  you." 

"First— first » 

And  again  the  wide  and  sparkling  sky  of  the  hill-top 
was  filled  with  those  floating  strands  of  music.  Davies 
could  hear  them.  And  he  listened  and  listened  and 
heard  no  sound  at  all  of  that  grisly  ghost-procession 
which  had  passed  this  way  before. 

Among  the  thousand  thoughts  and  wide  fractions  of 
vision  that  displaced  each  other  like  a  pageantry  in 
his  stimulated  brain  there  was  one  particularly  which 
impressed  itself  on  his  memory  and  imagination. 

It  was  this : 

Alvah  possessed  the  power  of  making  the  country 
everything  that  Ezra  Wood  had  indicated  it  to  be.  Al 
vah  possessed  the  power  to  make  the  whole  world  like 
that.  For  him  she  did.  With  her  to  give  him  dominion 
over  the  haunts,  the  pitfalls,  the  passions  and  the  frail 
ties  of  his  personal  history  and  constitution,  the  whole 
world  could  become  the  world  of  Ezra  Wood: 

" — sweet,  and  tender,  and  pure.  All  this  under  a 
sky  that  would  make  you  understand  why  men  catt  it 
heaven — and  at  last  a  sunset  proclaiming  the  glory  of 
God,  and  the  stars  His  long-suffering  mercy." 

But  there  was  no  delusion  in  all  this.  His  mind  was 
too  clear  for  that.  There  was  going  to  be  work  ahead, 
and  struggle  ahead,  and  suffering,  too,  whatever  the 
course  he  should  elect. 

Only,  all  the  time  that  he  was  lying  there  on  the 
short  turf — face  up,  a  sense  of  Alvah's  hovering  pres 
ence  about  him  like  a  magical,  transparent  tent — he  was 
conscious  that  he  was  still  drawing  in  that  strength 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

and  nourishment  which  would  render  him  fit  to  encoun 
ter  whatever  he  might  be  called  upon  to  go  up  against. 

He  didn't  even  mind  it  when  he  was  aware  that  Alvah 
was  telling  him  what  a  great  and  good  man  she  con 
sidered  Professor  Culbertson  to  be — a  trifle  ungram- 
matical  at  times,  but  so  innocent,  so  old-fashioned,  so 
unworldly!  He  was  listening  to  her;  but  not  to  her 
words ;  the  music  of  her  voice  was  enough. 

He  had  the  playful,  uplifting  fancy  that  a  girl  could 
look  at  any  man — himself,  for  instance — and  simply  by 
doing  so  actually  transform  him  into  the  being  of  her 
conception. 

Ah,  Alvah!    Ah,  Dick! 

Is  this  not  of  the  very  essence  of  all  miracles? 

And  Davies  took  her  finger-tips  and  touched  them 
to  his  forehead  and  held  them  there  while  he  desired 
himself  to  be  transformed — desired  himself  to  be  that 
which  she  alone  in  all  the  world  perceived  him  to  be. 

Then,  presently,  he  was  visioning  again ;  while  Alvah, 
from  the  upper  air,  let  fall  about  him  as  lightly  as  the 
notes  of  a  lark  the  words  of  a  song  that  helped  him 
with  his  vision : 

"All  up    and   down    de   whole   creation, 

Sadly   I    roam, 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  the  old  folks  at  home." 

He  knew  of  a  place  like  that.  Wouldn't  it  be  great 
if  he  should  marry  Alvah  and  settle  down?  Wouldn't 
it,  though? 

He  harbored  the  vision;  yet  said  nothing  about  it 


PARDON  235 

even  to  Alvah.  First  he  was  going  to  have  to  find  out 
about  the  thing,  make  his  dispositions.  And  the  idea 
as  yet  appeared  almost  too  preposterously  great. 

But  what  if  he  could  suddenly  offer  Alvah  such  a 
home! 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD" 

THE  home  of  his  vision  was  a  farm  less  than  two 
miles  out  from  St.  Clair,  which  he  had  frequently  passed 
in  his  drives  about  the  country  in  search  of  insurance 
prospects — a  broad  meadow  fringing  the  pike,  a  shady 
door-yard  beyond  this,  reached  by  a  private  road  and 
an  old  house  in  it  half  hidden  by  the  trees ;  back  of  the 
house  a  number  of  barns,  and  back  of  the  barns  a 
wooded  hill  with  a  couple  of  roundly  sloping  fields  on 
the  flank  of  it. 

He  had  always  mentally  labeled  it  "The  Old  Home 
stead!" 

And  it  had  always  struck  a  sorrowful  note  from  the 
heart  of  him  when  he  read  the  sign  on  the  meadow- 
fence  announcing  that  the  place  was  for  sale. 

Without  having  attached  any  importance  to  the  in 
formation,  he  recollected  now  that  he  had  picked  up 
quite  a  little  information  about  the  property — here 
and  there,  among  farmers  and  the  villagers,  he  couldn't 
have  told  where.  The  place  had  belonged,  or  still  be 
longed,  to  a  family  named  Slocum — a  family  which  had 
once  been  numerous  and  influential  and  properly  rich, 
but  which  now  had  disappeared.  He  had  heard  other 
things — that  the  ground  was  poor,  that  the  house  was 

236 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD"  237 

in  bad  repair.  And  there  had  been  something  about 
the  title — "They'll  never  get  the  title  straightened  out" 
something  like  that. 

But  none  of  this  information  was  more  than  a  pass 
ing  shadow  on  the  vision — scarcely  a  shadow  at  all.  It 
gave  the  place  an  added  touch  of  glamour. 

More  than  that ! 

If  no  one  else  wanted  the  property,  it  would  be  all  the 
easier  for  him  to  get  it  for  himself — something  that  he 
scarcely  could  have  aspired  to  had  everything  been  in 
shipshape  order  and  of  a  nature  to  appeal  to  those 
with  more  money  to  spend. 

What  did  he  care  about  the  quality  of  the  land?  He 
wasn't  going  to  be  a  farmer,  anyway.  And  what  did 
it  matter  to  him  if  the  house  did  possess  a  leaky  roof? 
He  would  very  shortly  have  the  old  place  fixed  up-to- 
date. 

No;  it  was  just  the  looks  of  the  place  that  appealed 
to  him — had  appealed  to  him  all  along  even  before  he 
had  dreamed  of  acquiring  such  a  home  for  himself — 
for  such  a  wife! 

The  place,  moreover,  couldn't  be  so  terribly  dear. 
Few  of  the  farmers  he  met  on  his  rounds  appeared  to 
be  rich.  They  were  men  who  worked — chewed  straws 
when  they  talked — wore  muddy  boots — complained  of 
hard  times.  And  yet,  they  had  homes  that  differed 
only  in  degree  from  this  place  on  which  he  found  himself 
suddenly  setting  his  heart. 

It  was  two  or  three  days  later  when  Zeb  Ricketts,  in 
charge  of  the  all-but-abandoned  Slocum  farm,  saw 


238  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Davies  drawing  near  along  the  St.  Clair  Pike.  Zeb 
recognized  the  horse  and  buggy  Davies  used  long  be 
fore  it  would  have  been  possible  for  any  one  without  a 
telescope  to  have  recognized  Davies  himself. 

Zeb  dropped  a  rake  and  put  his  elbows  on  the  fence. 

"That  insurance  feller's  startin'  out  early,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "Must  have  a  special  case." 

Zeb  talked  to  himself  mostly,  for  he  was  all  alone  on 
the  farm.  Talking  to  himself  was  more  satisfactory 
than  talking  to  the  one  horse,  the  one  cow,  and  the  dozen 
or  so  fowls  left  on  the  place.  The  horse  was  crowbait 
and  had  the  heaves.  The  cow  was  dry,  slightly  crazy, 
and  as  wild  as  a  chipmunk.  The  hens  were  diligent 
egg-hiders. 

"Bet  he's  goin*  to  drive  over  as  far  as  Miilville,"  lie 
said.  "Bet  he's  goin*  to  eat  his  dinner  in  the  tavern 
over  there." 

And  he  fell  into  a  melancholic  reverie.  He  had  been 
to  Miilville  once — one  Fourth  of  July — and  Miilville 
was  across  the  line,  in  the  next  county — like  going 
abroad  for  Zeb.  He  wished  that  something  would  turn 
up  so  that  he  could  travel  again. 

Then  his  reverie  came  to  an  abrupt  end. 

"By  jiminy!"  he  exclaimed.     "He's  turnin'  in." 

He  rapidly  deduced  that  it  couldn't  be  insurance 
business  that  was  bringing  the  visitor.  He  was  correct. 
Davies  drove  slowly  up  the  private  lane,  came  to  a  stop 
not  far  from  where  Zeb  stood. 

"Good  morning !"  said  Davies. 

Zeb  smiled  at  him  for  a  long  moment  before  answer- 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD"  239 

ing.  Zeb  was  cordial  enough,  but  he  was  cautious.  He 
wasn't  going  to  commit  himself. 

"I  read  the  sign  on  the  fence,"  said  Davies. 

"Which  one?" 

"That  the  place  was  for  sale." 

"You  might  have  meant  the  patent  medicine  signs," 
said  Zeb,  unbending  a  bit.  "The  feller  that  put  'em 
there  hired  that  same  rig  you  got  from  Jellison's." 

"The  place  is  for  sale,  isn't  it?" 

"I  guess  the  feller'd  be  a  liar  who  said  it  wasn't." 

"Who's  in  charge?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Zeb,  keeping  Davies  fixed 
with  his  glittering  eye ;  "since  you  ask  me,  young  fel 
low,  why,  it's  me." 

Davies  got  down,  taking  his  time  about  it.  His  trips 
about  the  country  had  made  him  used  to  all  sorts  of 
people  and  their  ways.  He  hitched  his  horse  to  an  iron 
ring  in  the  bark  of  the  tree.  He  came  over  and 
squatted  in  the  grass.  Zeb,  meantime,  had  seated  him 
self  on  the  stump  of  a  tree  which,  in  times  remote,  had 
been  whitewashed  for  decorative  purposes. 

"Had  many  offers?"  Davies  asked. 

This  was  bargaining,  and  Zeb  was  at  home. 

"Not  more'n  two  or  three  a  day." 

"I  think  you're  lying,"  said  Davies  in  his  heart. 
Aloud :  "Then,  I  suppose,  there's  no  use  in  my  wasting 
your  time." 

Zeb  eyed  the  stranger  keenly.  And  all  the  time  he 
was  doing  so  two  lines  of  thought  were  squirming  in  his 
brain.  One  was  that  this  stranger  was  a  greenhorn 
with  plenty  of  money.  The  other  twin-serpent  of 


240  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

thought  was  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  travel  again. 
But  he  concealed  the  contents  of  his  brain  with  subtle 
speech. 

"If  it  was  anybody  but  you,"  he  said  "maybe  they 
wouldn't  be  any  use."  And  he  began  to  swing  his  leg. 

"Why  do  you  make  an  exception  in  my  case?" 

"Got  my  reasons." 

"What  are  your  reasons  ?" 

"Maybe  it's  because  we've  got  the  same  friend,"  said 
Zeb. 

"Who  is  that?" 

"Professor  Culbertson,"  said  Zeb.  "I'm  like  you. 
I'm  a  follower  of  the  Beatin'  Heart." 

There  for  a  moment  it  was  in  Davies's  heart  to  deny 
the  allegation,  but  it  merely  made  him  smile. 

He  looked  about  him.  Here  in  the  door-yard  the 
uncut  grass  was  lush  and  deep  even  in  the  shade  of 
the  walnuts  and  the  honey-locusts.  The  house  looked 
even  better  than  it  did  from  the  road.  Run  down? 
Yes.  But  roomy,  deeply  porched,  homelike.  Under 
that  porch  he  could  put  up  a  hammock  for  Alvah  to 
swing  in.  Here  on  this  stump  he  could  easily  put  a 
box  of  red  geraniums. 

"How  much  do  you  think  the  place  is  worth?"  he 
asked. 

Zeb  was  keen  again. 

"Cash  or  credit?" 

"I  expect  to  pay  something  down,"  said  Davies,  "and 
then  pay  the  rest  in  installments." 

Zeb  went  a  trifle  breathless. 


"THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD" 

"Was  you  expectin'  to  pay  somethin*  down  right 
off?" 

"I  wasn't,"  said  Davies;  "but  I  could,  if  it  were 
necessary." 

"You'd  have  the  live  stock  for  security,"  urged  Zeb. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

HESITATIONS 

BUT  now  that  the  matter  of  terms  had  come  up, 
Davies  began  to  be  assailed  by  vague  misgivings — some 
hint  from  his  soul,  perhaps,  that  his  path  to  happiness 
wasn't  going  to  be  so  simple  as  all  that.  He  had  a 
hundred  dollars.  He  hesitated.  Zeb  wanted  three 
hundred  dollars  down.  Zeb  kept  talking  about  the  im 
minence  of  other  and  better  offers.  At  the  same  time 
Zeb  couldn't  forget  the  fact  that  both  he  and  Davies 
were  friends  of  Professor  Culbertsori.  Zeb  was  walk 
ing  into  town  every  time  the  great  man  spoke.  The 
upshot  of  the  matter  was  that  Davies  finally  paid  his 
hundred  dollars  for  a  thirty-day  option  on  the  place. 

Why  not?     Why  these  vague  misgivings? 

Misgivings  and  anticipations  were  using  his  hearh 
for  a  battle-field  all  the  rest  of  the  day  as  he  drove 
about  the  country  in  quest  of  new  business.  He  was 
going  to  have  to  get  a  lot  of  new  business.  If  he 
wanted  to  make  his  option  good  at  the  end  of  the  thirty 
days  he  would  have  to  come  across  with  another  two 
hundred.  Could  he  do  this?  Of  course  he  could — if 
Frank  Tine,  the  insurance  agent,  did  his  part.  But 
would  Frank  Tine  do  his  part  ?  Sure  he  would. 

None  the  less,  his  misgivings  won  another  skirmish. 

242 


HESITATIONS 

He  flashed  up  a  mental  portrait  of  his  employer — 
broad  of  jaw  bait  gimlet-nosed,  affable,  yet  with  a  cer 
tain  something  in  his  eyes.  And  Frank  had  certainly 
been  sitting  in  pretty  steadily  of  late  at  that  poker 
game  over  at  the  hotel. 

"Forget  it,"  Davies  adjured  himself. 

On  another  day  he  got  Colonel  Williams  to  drive  with 
him  over  to  the  county  seat  to  inquire  into  the  titles 
of  the  Slocum  place.  There  was  nothing  radically 
wrong  in  that  respect.  He  had  taken  the  colonel  into 
his  confidence  to  some  extent — had  mentioned  to  the 
colonel  the  possibility  of  his  buying  this  farm.  And 
the  colonel  was  moved. 

"How  much  more  would  you  be  moved,"  said  Dick 
to  himself,  but  in  thought,  addressing  the  colonel — 
"how  much  more  would  you  be  moved  if  you  knew  that 
I  was  buying  this  for  Alvah?" 

Perhaps  the  colonel  did  suspect. 

"I  know  of  nothing,"  said  the  colonel,  "that  will  so 
help  a  young  man  to  self-respect  as  the  acquisition  of 
a  bit  of  property  that  he  has  earned  himself." 

Just  a  generalization;  nothing  personal. 

"I'd  hate  to  get  a  piece  of  property,"  said  Dick, 
"and  then  get  bilked  out  of  it." 

Colonel  Williams  allowed  himself  a  flight  to  a  higher 
philosophical  plane.  He  smiled  with  his  eyes.  He 
stroked  his  white,  ante-bellum  mustache.  They  were 
seated  in  the  buggy  at  the  time,  jogging  along  through 
a  mild  and  pleasant  country.  The  colonel  was  looking 
straight  ahead,  yet  with  that  obvious  alertness  of 
thought  that  meant  he  was  aware  of  all  things. 


244  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "a  fair  degree  of  caution  is  always 
advisable  in  business  matters.  But  work — just  work — 
is  the  essential  thing.  As  Emerson  says,  'no  effort  is 
ever  lost.'  No  one  can  rob  you  except  yourself.  Even 
should  you  work  hard  and  earn  money  to  pay  for  a 
farm,  and  did  pay  for  it,  and  then  found  that,  through 
some  mistake  or  trickery,  both  farm  and  money  were 
lost  to  you,  still  you'd  be  the  possessor  of  the  equiva 
lent,  and  more  than  the  equivalent,  of  what  had  been 
taken  from  you." 

"How  about  the  other  fellow?"  asked  Dick. 

"What  other  fellow?" 

"The  one  who  put  over  the  crooked  business  and 
copped  the  farm?" 

"He'd  have  to  pay,"  replied  the  colonel,  gently  and 
sagely.  "It  would  become  a  debt — a  debt  bearing  in 
terest.  The  longer  he  deferred  payment  the  higher  the 
interest  would  become.  He'd  have  his  soul  in  pawn. 
If  he  persisted  in  non-payment  he'd  lose  his  soul." 

The  debt! 

The  phrase  found  lodgment  in  Davies's  innermost 
consciousness. 

He  himself  had  a  debt  to  pay.  That  wasn't  easy 
money  that  had  come  to  him  during  his  years  in  New 
York.  The  so-called  easy  money,  at  its  best,  was  a 
loan.  And  all  the  time  the  interest  had  been  piling 
up — there  in  the  devil's  pawn-shop — where  he  had 
pledged  his  soul. 

And  he  couldn't  ask  Alvah  Morley  to  marry  him — 
could  he? — until  he  had  paid  off  this  debt  of  his,  princi 
pal  and  interest,  got  his  soul  back  again. 


HESITATIONS  245 

He  had  half  intended  to  broach  this  matter  to  the 
colonel,  tell  the  colonel  that  he  was  in  love  with  Alvah ; 
but  now  the  very  certainty  that  the  colonel  would  re 
gard  him  with  favor  tied  Davies's  tongue. 

"A  great  truth,"  the  colonel  was  saying;  "a  truth  to 
heal  and  comfort  all  of  us  in  times  of  grief  and  trouble. 
We  lose  our  earthly  possessions;  we  take  our  talents 
into  some  happy  valley  of  the  spirit  and  live  like  a  king. 
We  lose  some  one  who  was  very  dear  and,  from  that 
time  on,  she — or  he — is  with  us  all  the  time.  I  knew 
a  young  man  who  lost  his  eyes.  He  recovered  the 
power  of  a  different  sort  of  vision — you  could  tell  it 
by  the  expression  of  his  face.  Perhaps  you've  noticed 
it — that  placid  expression  the  blind  have." 

Davies  heard;  but  it  was  only  with  the  surface  of 
his  hearing,  so  to  speak.  His  inner  hearing  was  still 
vibrant  to  the  beat  of  that  earlier  phrase : 

"The  debt!    The  debt!" 

Was  it  a  part  of  the  payment  that  he  should  tell  the 
colonel  just  what  manner  of  man  was  this  Professor 
Culbertson  the  colonel  had  taken  into  his  home?" 

But  the  colonel  was  speaking  again. 

"The  same  thing  is  true  of  those  who  rob  cities," 
Dick  heard  him  say;  and  it  was  just  as  if  the  colonel 
had  read  his  thought — just  as  if  the  colonel  did  have 
old  Sky-Blue  in  mind.  "The  debt's  the  same — one 
that  they  will  have  to  pay — one  that  will  admit  of  no 
default.  I  often  think  of  this  when  I  read  about  the 
political  grafters  and  all  the  other  sorts  of  grafters 
who  wouldn't  stoop  to  rob  an  individual  but  who  ap- 


246  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

patently  see  no  wrong  in  robbing  a  community.  For 
them  also  'the  wages  of  sin  is  death.' " 

"That's  right,"  said  Dick. 

"It  doesn't  mitigate  their  deed,"  the  colonel  said, 
"in  that  the  community  may  not  be  harmed,  any  more 
than  an  individual  is  harmed  through  being  the  victim 
of  a  theft  or  a  chicanery." 

"I  follow  you,"  said  Dick ;  but  it  is  doubtful  whether 
he  did  or  not. 

"Why,  I  remember,"  said  the  colonel,  "the  instance  of 
a  certain  impostor  who  once  went  about  a  certain  sec 
tion  of  the  South  in  the  guise  of  a  religious  zealot.  A 
thoroughly  bad  man,  you  will  say ;  one  who  made  mock 
of  sacred  things  in  order  to  satisfy  his  private  greed. 
But  not  even  he,  in  the  last  analysis,  can  be  said  to 
have  injured  the  community.  He  stirred  dormant  emo 
tions  that  were  better  awake — quickened  generous  im 
pulses  which  might  otherwise  have  never  been  quick 
ened  at  all." 

"That's  Sky-Blue,"  said  Richard  to  himself. 

And  he  decided  that  he'd  better  not  say  anything 
about  the  old  crook — not  just  yet. 

"A  benign  Providence,"  said  the  colonel,  "seems  to 
have  arranged  all  things  to  its  own  ends — even  the  ap 
parent  crookedness  and  brutalities  of  the  world — driv 
ing  the  individual,  or  the  town,  or  the  nation  to  look 
less  and  less  to  material  and  more  and  more  to  spiritual 
values." 

"This  is  the  old  Southerner  talking,"  said  Davics  to 
himself.  "Or  is  he  taking  a  shot  at  Sky-Blue  after 
all?" 


HESITATIONS  £4-7 

In  any  case,  all  that  the  colonel  said,  more  or  less, 
entered  into  his  make-up — just  like  something  that  he 
had  eaten,  and  digested,  and  made  a  part  of  himself. 
And  this  made  him  love  not  only  the  colonel  all  th •'-. 
more,  but  Alvah,  and  even  Sky-Blue — made  him  look 
with  greater  tranquillity  on  Frank  Tine,  and  St.  Clair, 
and  on  the  world  in  general;  aware  that  all  that  hap 
pened  to  him  might  be  for  the  better  in  the  long  run, 
anyway. 

It  was  just  as  well  for  him,  perhaps,  that  he  did  get 
this  increment  of  strength  and  wisdom  from  the  colonel. 
The  time  drew  near  when  he  was  going  to  need  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

ACID  AND  ALKALI 

THERE'S  an  old  rule.  Almost  every  one  has  noticed 
it.  It  keeps  turning  up  in  the  lives  of  all  sorte  of 
men,  from  Moses  down.  The  rule  is  this: 

Just  as  soon  as  a  man,  or  a  woman,  or  an  angel, 
reaches  some  high  point  of  moral  supremacy,  just  so 
soon  the  dark  forces  begin  their  game  of  bringing  the 
climber  down. 

Davies  didn't  codify  the  rule.  He  may  not  have 
recognized  it.  But  the  rule  was  making  itself  felt  none 
the  less. 

In  the  first  place,  he  had  a  lot  of  trouble  and  lost 
a  lot  of  time  trying  to  get  Frank  Tine  where  he  could 
speak  to  him  in  private  and  at  length.  Frank  cer 
tainly  was  keen  on  the  poker  festival  over  at  the  hotel. 
But  Davies  finally  cornered  his  chief  in  a  little  room 
that  served  them  both  as  office. 

"I've  paid  a  hundred  down,"  Davies  explained ;  "and 
promised  to  pay  two  hundred  in  thirty  days.  That's 
three  weeks  from  now." 

"What's  the  price?"  asked  Tine. 

"Fifteen  hundred  in  all." 

"I  understand  the  title's  no  good." 

24S 


ACID  AND  ALKALI 

"The  title's  all  right,"  said  Dick.  "I've  had  it 
looked  into." 

"And  if  you  don't  show  up  with  that  two  hundred — 
what  was  the  date?" 

"Three  weeks  from  to-day." 

"What  will  happen?" 

"I'll  lose  my  option,  that's  all,"  said  Dick.  His 
dark  eyes  noted  a  spot  on  Tine's  none-too-tidy  coat. 
"You  ought  to  use  some  of  this  cleansing  soap.  I 
carry  it  with  me.  Let  me  show  you." 

"Still  sticking  to  the  soap,"  said  Tine;  but  his 
thought  was  elsewhere.  His  usually  shifty  eyes  were 
steady,  turned  inward. 

Davies  had  come  back  with  the  office  towel  from  the 
washstand  in  the  closet.  He  had  moistened  a  corner  of 
it.  He  applied  this  to  the  spot  on  Tine's  coat. 

"Stick  to  it,"  he  said,  "because,  somehow,  I  like  it — 
clean,  smells  good,  like  to  use  it  myself." 

"You  keep  yourself  spick  and  span,  all  right,"  the 
insurance  man  complimented  him.  But  his  thoughts 
were  still  elsewhere.  They  ranged  out  to  that  farm 
this  odd  assistant  of  his  had  taken  steps  to  acquire. 
For,  like  most  insurance  men,  Tine  was  also  a  real  es 
tate  agent.  He  should  have  had  that  Slocum  property 
in  mind — would  have  had  it  in  mind  if  the  poker  game 
hadn't  been  running  so  strong  over  at  the  hotel.  "How 
does  the  place  look?" 

"Great!"  said  Davies.  "Run  down — that's  how  I 
got  it  so  cheap;  but  just  a  little  money  spent  on  it, 
and  it'll  be  a  regular  home." 

Tine  spoke  to  himself : 


250  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Harold  Peebles  wants  a  place  like  that.  He's  a 
sucker  with  plenty  of  money.  I  could  put  it  over  on 
him." 

"I  just  wanted  to  remind  you,"  said  Davies,  good- 
naturedly,  as  he  finished  his  task.  "There,  that  spot's 
gone!  Just  wanted  to  remind  you  so  you'd  be  there 
with  the  commissions  when  the  new  business  comes 
rolling  in." 

"Because,"  said  Tine,  with  an  inverted  smile,  "if  you 
don't  show  up  with  your  old  two  hundred " 

"I  lose  my  hundred  and  my  option,"  Davies  repeated, 
cheerfully. 

It  may  have  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  taking  a 
pretty  big  chance  in  thus  putting  himself  virtually  at 
the  mercy  of  a  small-town  gambler  like  Frank  Tine. 
But  he  was  in  the  mood  for  taking  chances.  Wasn't 
it  true,  anyway,  that  not  Frank  Tine  nor  any  one 
could  do  anything  to  injure  him?  No  one  could  do 
that  but  himself. 

But  he  was  barely  at  the  bottom  of  the  dusty  stairs 
leading  to  the  street  before  he  met  Simp  Fisher.  It 
struck  Davies  that  Simp's  expression  had  even  more 
of  sheepish  suffering  in  it  than  of  evil.  He  felt  sorry 
for  Simp — felt  a  friendship  for  him. 

"Hello!"  said  Davies. 

"Hello!"  said  Simp. 

"Understand  you're  framing  up  a  suit  against  me." 

Simp  ran  a  careful  hand  over  his  jaw.  He  looked 
across  the  sunlit  street,  glanced  at  a  couple  of  farm 
ers  who  were  tying  up  their  teams  on  the  hither  side. 

"It  ain't  an  ill-will  suit,"  he  averred  nervously.    "Doc 


ACID  AND  ALKALI  251 

Flenner  says  I've  been  injured  for  life.  I  ain't  hardlj 
been  able  to  eat  on  that  jaw  for  two  weeks." 

"Maybe  you  got  a  piece  of  toothpick  stuck  in  it." 

«No,  sir!" 

"What's  doc  say  it  is?" 

"Dock  ain't  sayin'.  He's  countin'  on  gettin'  called 
as  an  expert.  His  bill's  high  enough  as  it  is." 

"How  much?" 

"Twelve  dollars,"  said  Simp,  with  an  increase  of 
nerves.  "You  settle  that,  and  I'll  call  the  suit.  We'll 
get  even  with  that  dern  Peebles." 

Davies's  first  impulse  was  to  laugh  at  Simp  and  tell 
him  to  go  to  the  devil,  but  the  impulse  faded  almost  at 
the  moment  of  its  inception.  Down  the  street,  in  a 
lofty  old  buggy  drawn  by  his  skeleton  nag  with  the 
heaves,  came  Zeb  Ricketts.  And  Zeb  was  all  dressed 
up — new  clothes,  new  hat,  new  celluloid  collar  that 
glistened,  new  buggy-whip.  An  emissary  from  the  Old 
Homestead,  a  mentor  of  new  responsibilities.  Davies 
couldn't  go  into  that  new  home  of  his  with  the  curse  of 
a  law-suit  hanging  over  him;  and,  suddenly,  that  im 
pulse  of  his  was  altogether  reversed. 

"Shake  hands  on  it,  Simp,"  he  said. 

Simp  had  a  lurch  of  delight  strange  in  one  injured 
for  life. 

"And  tell  Doc  Flenner  to  send  the  bill  to  me,"  said 
Davies,  gravely.  "I'm  sorry  you  got  your  face  in  my 
way." 

Simp  grinned. 

Not  even  when,  later  that  day,  Constable  Winch  spied 
him  from  afar  and  hailed  him  with  amiable  intent  would 


252  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Davies  allow  himself  to  be  shaken  in  the  new  strength 
he  was  building  up. 

"Could  you  loan  me  a  couple  of  dollars?"  the  con 
stable  whispered  with  great  haste.  "I  could  let  you 
have  it  right  back." 

Davies  sighed. 

"Sure." 

"You  couldn't  make  it  a  five?"  the  constable  sug 
gested. 

"Two's  the  limit,"  Davies  replied. 

"Because,"  said  Winch,  "I  just  heard  somethin'  that 
might  interest  you." 

"Which  is?" 

"You  know  that  Zeb  Ricketts,  don't  you?  I  under 
stand  him  to  say  a  while  ago,  when  he  was  over  to  the 
Red  Trunk  Clothing  Store,  as  how  you'd  paid  him  some 
money  on  the  Slocum  place." 

"Well,  what  of  it?" 

"Well,  later  on,  I  see  Zeb  and  Frank  Tine  whisperin' 
together  back  of  Jellison's  livery  'n'  feed  stable. 
Nothin'  wrong.  Only  thought  you'd  like  to  know." 

Davies  was  vaguely  disquieted  by  the  news  that 
Winch  had  given  him,  inconsequential  though  this  on 
the  surface  appeared  to  be.  But  he  fought  the  feel 
ing  off. 

There  for  a  while  he  was  even  trying  to  stifle  his 
knowledge  of  old  Sky-Blue  and  of  what  sort  of  a  work 
old  Sky-Blue  was  engaged  upon.  What  was  that 
theory  about  folks  being  good  if  you  would  onlj  be 
lieve  them  to  be  good? 

But  as  to  that,  things  were  coming  to  a  head. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"i  AM  THE  PRINTING-PRESS" 

HE  had  got  home  from  the  country  late  one  night, 
when,  after  putting  up  his  horse  at  Jellison's,  his  route 
took  him  past  the  Messenger  office,  and  he  was  both  sur 
prised  and  pleased  to  see  that  there  was  a  light  shin 
ing  from  beyond  the  partition  separating  the  mechani 
cal  end  of  the  Messenger  plant  from  the  business  and 
editorial  department.  Davies  wanted  some  cards 
printed;  and,  unless  he  put  in  his  order  now,  he  knew 
that  he  would  be  forgetting  it  again.  So  he  tried  the 
front  door;  the  door  was  locked.  He  went  around  to 
the  back  of  the  building,  and  he  could  hear  some  one  in 
there  running  a  foot-press.  It  was  useless  to  knock. 
Whoever  was  running  the  press  would  be  deafened  by 
his  own  noise.  So  Davies  entered  the  place. 

And  there  was  Sky-Blue  himself — coat  off,  all  alone, 
treading  away  at  the  foot-press,  feeding  in  the  sheets 
and  pulling  them  out  printed — a  picture  of  happy  in 
dustry. 

"Well!  Well!  Well!"  the  bishop  laughed,  so  soon 
as  he  had  seen  who  the  intruder  was. 

He  had  instantly  stopped  the  running  of  the  press. 
He  utilized  the  intermission  now  to  straighten  some 
of  the  sheets  he  had  printed.  He  had  put  on  an  old 

253 


254  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

pair  of  spectacles  which  he  seldom  used.  These  were 
resting  on  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  he  now  looked 
through  them,  tilting  his  head  back  to  do  so,  the  better 
to  admire  his  handiwork. 

"Didn't  know  I  was  a  printer;  did  you,  Chicky?" 

"No!" 

"Well,  I'll  have  to  learn  you  that,  too,"  said  the 
bishop,  "some  time  when  you  and  me  are  shut  of  this 
damn  hole." 

"I'm  not  aiming  to  get  shut  of  it,"  said  Davies,  with 
intensity. 

But  the  bishop  ignored  him. 

"There  are  always  times,"  he  went  on,  sagely,  as  he 
continued  to  examine  his  work,  "when  knowledge  like 
this  comes  in  handy.  Oh-h,  the  power  of  printer's  ink ! 
Oh-h,  the  mar-r-velous  invention  of  the  printing-press ! 
There  are  suckers  who  wouldn't  believe  the  Bible  if 
it  was  writ  by  hand,  but  who'll  swaller  anything  you 
want  'em  to  if  it's  printed." 

"How  does  it  come  you're  doing  all  this  hard  work 
yourself?"  Davies  asked. 

"That's  something  else,"  said  Sky-Blue,  reverently. 
"Oh-h,  the  poor  people  that  got  ketched  through  not 
knowin'  how  to  do  things  for  themselves!  My  heart 
bleeds  for  'em,  Chicky !  My  heart  bleeds  for  'em." 

"Well,  what  have  you  been  printing?"  Davies  asked. 
"Something  crooked?" 

"Oh,  there  you  go!"  cried  Sky-Blue  with  sudden 
temper.  "There  you  go !  Me  here  breakin'  my  back ! 
You  comin'  in  with  your  lily-white  hands  and  your 


"I  AM  THE  PRINTING-PRESS"          255 

brassy  cheek!  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself! 
But  you  ain't !" 

And  for  a  long  time  the  old  man  was  so  touchy  at 
Davies's  slur  on  his  character  that  he  would  hardly 
talk  at  all.  But  it  evolved  that  he  had  borrowed  the 
Messenger's  job  department  merely  to  recall  the  days 
of  his  youth — "an  old  man's  whim" — and  had  seized 
the  occasion  to  run  off  a  number  of  things :  professional 
cards,  letterheads,  excerpts  of  letters  from  famous  peo 
ple.  Some  of  these  letters  began  "Dear  Professor," 
and  two  began  "Dear  Culbertson,"  but  the  more  fa 
miliar  form  was  reserved  for  the  Archbishop  of  Can 
terbury  and  the  King  of  Sweden. 

Sky-Blue  went  over  these  things  with  pride  and  he 
gradually  softened.  Finally,  he  said: 

"I'm  glad  you  come  in.  You  don't  deserve  it,  but  I 
had  you  in  mind  all  the  time  I  was  doin'  this  last  job 
o'  work.  It's  comin'  along  to  the  time,  Chicky,  when 
you  and  me  are  goin'  to  do  the  grand  vamoose." 

Davies  was  silent. 

"Don't  you  want  to  hear  about  it?"  asked  Sky- 
Blue. 

"Sure." 

"Then,  why  don't  you  show  it,  instead  of  acting  like 
an  ungrateful  purp?" 

"Gee,  you're  touchy  to-night,"  said  Davies.  "Go  on, 
tell  me  all  about  it.  I'm  listening." 

"I'm  getting  ready  to  make  the  biggest  killin*  of 
my  career,"  said  the  bishop,  with  returning  indulgence, 
"and  I'm  goin'  to  let  you  in  on  it.  Listen!  IVe 
pulled  off  a  hundred  of  these:  Number — date-line — 


256  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

then,  'St.  Clair  City  Bank,  Pay  to  the  order  of  B.  N. 
Culbertson,  foundation  Beating  Heart  Seminary* — 
line  for  the  amount,  line  for  the  signature." 

"These  are  checks!"  Davies  exclaimed. 

"Checks  they  be,  Hollo!" 

"You  can't  get  folks  to  sign  those." 

"Can't  I?"  The  Bishop  laughed.  "Watch  me — 
•watch  me  and  learn !  This  was  what  I  was  talkin'  about. 
Oh-h,  my  poor  Richard!  When  you  see  the  good 
people  of  St.  Clair  signin'  these  like  they  was  some 
sort  of  a  pledge,  and  me  pinnin'  a  pure  white  ribbon 
on  each  dear  soul,  and  the  little  children  singin'  Sun 
day-school  songs " 

His  voice  choked  up,  and  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes. 

"They're  as  good  as  gold,"  he  whispered,  mastering 
his  emotions.  "I'll  cash  every  damn  penny  of  'em 
if  it  cleans  out  the  bank.  And  I'm  splittin'  it  with 
you.  Before  they  wake  up  we'll  be  in  California." 

"Count  me  out,"  said  Davies. 

The  bishop  let  out  a  roar: 

"What?" 

"You  can  count  me  out!" 

Sky-Blue's  mouth  was  open.  Words  failed  him. 
For  a  moment  or  two,  they  did.  When  he  finally 
spoke,  his  voice  was  soft  and  reasonable.  But  the  un 
dercurrent  of  it  was  stiff. 

"By  Jupiter,  Chicky!"  he  said.  "Are  you  goin'  to 
go  on  play-actin'  until  I  leave  you  out  of  my  plans? 
Are  jou?  Or  are  you  goin'  to  be  as  open  and  above- 


"I  AM  THE  PRINTING-PRESS"         257 

board  and  honor-bright  as  I  am?  Are  you  entirely 
lackin'  in  sincerity?  Answer  me,  yes  or  no." 

"I'm  a  handing  it  to  you  straight,"  said  Davies. 

"Oh,  you  are!" 

"Yes,  I  am." 

"Well,  then,  let  me  tell  you  something;  since  you're 
so  smart.  What  you  said  about  that  old  fossil,  Colo 
nel  Williams,  not  havin'  a  cent  turns  out  to  be  the 
truth." 

"I  know  it's  the  truth — have  known  it  all  along." 

"Oh,  you  did!" 

The  bishop  was  ironical,  but  it  was  plain  he  was 
somewhat  shaken.  He  stuck  to  his  guns,  however. 

"And  I  suppose  you  knew,"  he  continued,  "that  he 
and  the  whole  damn  passel  of  you  was  goin'  to  be 
thrown  out  of  that  house  before  long!" 

Davies  didn't  know  that,  and  his  face  showed  it. 

«O-ho!"  crooned  Sky-Blue. 

"Where'd  you  get  that?"  Davies  asked. 

"Now,  you're  askin',"  the  bishop  replied  with  benevo 
lent  triumph.  "Regular  college-boy,  but  has  to  fall 
back  on  o-l-l-d  Professor  Culbertson!"  He  chuckled. 
"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  I  ain't  like  you.  By  deserts,  I'd 
keep  you  guessin'  like  you  tryin'  to  keep  me  guessin'. 
But  you're  young.  You  got  a  lot  to  learn." 

"Who's  going  to  throw  them  out?"  Davies  de 
manded. 

"And  you've  been  workin'  with  him !" 

"Frank  Tine?" 

"By  jings!     Guessed  it  at  last!" 

"Do  you  mean  it?" 


258          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Sure,  I  mean  it !  He  owns  all  the  mortgages,  don't 
he?  Goin*  to  foreclose!  Nothin*  strange  about  that, 
is  there,  Chicky?  Or  didn't  they  never  do  such  things 
where  you  come  from?" 


CHAPTER  XLI 

FAITH  AND  MOETGAGES 

THEEE  fell  another  period  of  silence  between  them. 
Davies  saw  it  now — or  believed  that  he  saw  it.  All 
that  beautiful  philosophy  that  the  colonel  had  been 
giving  him  on  their  ride  to  the  county-seat  was  the 
colonel's  own  swan-song.  That  was  what  it  was.  The 
colonel  had  spoken  with  death  in  his  heart — full  knowl 
edge  of  this  impending  catastrophe.  Yet  not  a  word, 
not  a  hint,  had  he  dropped  to  call  attention  to  his 
trouble. 

"I  thought  I'd  fetch  him,"  said  Sky-Blue  aloud  to 
himself. 

But  Davies  ignored  the  taunt.  For  the  present  he 
did.  His  mind  was  running  back  once  more  to  that 
scene  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  He  remembered 
now.  How  could  he  have  forgotten  ?  The  colonel  had 
spoken  then  about  having  exhausted  his  money.  Or 
it  may  have  been  Alvah's  money.  In  any  case,  nothing 
could  have  come  in  since  then  except  the  modest 
amounts  that  he  himself  had  pressed  upon  the  colonel 
from  time  to  time  in  lieu  of  regular  payment  for  board 
and  lodgings. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  the  situation  had  grown 
worse  since  the  illustrious  Culbertson  had  come  there 

259 


260  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

to  roost.  Culbertson  paid  no  rent.  And  Culbertson's 
appetite  ran  to  chops  and  other  high-priced  viands 
such  times  as  he  was  not  invited  out. 

"I  thought  I'd  fetch  him,"  Sky-Blue  repeated. 

The  elder  was  laughing  softly  to  himself  as  he  went 
about  the  work  of  distributing  the  type  he  had  set.  He 
did  this  with  a  skill  and  a  speed  that  fascinated  Davies 
even  in  the  midst  of  the  anger  he  felt. 

"Who  told  you  Tyne  was  going  to  foreclose?"  Da- 
vies  inquired  at  last. 

"Oh,  my!     Oh,  my!"  laughed  the  bishop. 

"It's  nothing  to  joke  about,"  said  Davies,  briefly. 

Sky-Blue  turned  from  his  work.  He  went  serious, 
went  a  little  tender.  His  voice  was  shaky  and  sympa 
thetic. 

"Frank's  a  crook,  Chicky,"  he  said,  "as  I  have  al 
ready  warned  you.  He's  got  to  clean  up  somehow, 
and  square  up,  and  he  knows  it,  or  he'll  be  havm'  one 
of  these  here  incorruptible  insurance-inspectors  drop- 
pin'  in  to  tell  him  all  about  the  s-a-a-cred  rights  of 
the  widders  and  the  orphans." 

"Good  Lord!" 

"Terrible,  aint  it?" 

"Yes;  it  is  terrible." 

"Especially,"  said  the  elder,  "when,  like  as  not, 
they'll  pinch  you,  too.  I  warned  you  against  associ- 
atin*  with  a  crook." 

Davies  steadied  himself. 

"I'm  not  thinking  of  that,"  he  said.  "My  con 
science  is  clear."  He  ignored  the  old  man's  smile. 
"I'm  thinking  about  what  may  happen  to  the  colonel 


FAITH  AND  MORTGAGES  261 

and — and  Alvah — if  they  have  to  leave  that  house." 

"Well,  now,  maybe  they  won't  have  to  leave  it." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Maybe  I  can  induce  Brother  Tine  not  to  foreclose." 

"Can  you?" 

"I  can,"  said  the  bishop ;  "but,  by  the  Lord  Harry, 
I  won't  if  you  keep  on  playin'  the  milksop !" 

"I'm  not  playing  the  milksop!" 

"There!  There!  Forgive  me,  Richard!  I  spoke 
before  I  thought."  He  let  his  voice  tremble.  "Rich 
ard,  are  you  absolutely  devoid  of  all  the  finer  senti 
ments?  Don't  you  know  the  meanin'  of  the  word  af 
fection?  Can't  you  understand  the  workin's  of  the 
heart  of  a  lonely  old  man  like  me?" 

Davies  was  silent.  It  was  a  moment  or  two  before 
Sky-Blue  got  up  steam  to  continue. 

"You  don't  want  to  see  me  stay  in  this  place  till  I 
rot;  do  you,  Richard?  No  more  than  I  want  to  see 
you  waste  your  young  life  here.  What  is  there  here? 
They  don't  know  how  to  season  their  food.  Fried 
rumpsteak!  Fried  taters!  Fried  sinkers!  Everything 
fried ! — fried  or  boiled !  My  stomach's  givin'  out,  Rich 
ard.  And  the  trouble  is  I  don't  dare  take  a  sip  of  li 
quor!  It's  killin'  me,  Richard.  You  don't  want  to 
see  old  Sky-Blue  die  for  want  of  a  mouthful  of  fittin' 
whisky ;  do  you,  Richard  ?"  He  almost  cried.  "Why," 
he  concluded,  "I  can't  even  get  a  chaw  of  proper  fine- 
cut." 

Davies  remained  silent.  He  would  have  to  work — 
that  was  all — work  harder  even  than  he  had  expected 
to  work — earn  not  only  enough  money  to  insure  that 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

payment  which  he  himself  was  going  to  have  to  make  to 
put  through  his  deal  for  the  Old  Homestead,  but 
enough,  as  well,  to  induce  Tine  to  carry  over  the  mort 
gages. 

Work! 

Work  to  pay  a  debt! 

He  couldn't  kick.  So  he  told  himself.  He  had  this 
coming  to  him.  But  would  it — could  it — all  turn  out 
all  right? 

In  the  meantime  the  bishop  was  continuing  his  lamen 
tations. 

"I  been  keepin*  Lent  fer  quite  a  long  time  now, 
Chicky.  You  got  to  hand  it  to  old  Sky-Blue  fer  that. 
There  ain't  too  many  comforts  fer  a  man  of  my  years. 
A  dram!  A  chaw!  Decent  victuals!  I  been  doin* 
without  *em  all,  Chicky.  And  you  can't  say  I  haven't 
worked." 

"I'm  thinking  about  the  colonel,"  Davies  announced, 
with  a  note  of  solemnity. 

"And  little  Alvah,"  quivered  the  bishop,  mockingly. 

"Yes,  and  Alvah!" 

"Well,  you're  wastin'  your  time." 

"How  so?" 

"Are  you  deef,  Richard?  Or  have  you  lost  your 
memory?  Or  perhaps  you  think  I  was  lyin*  to  you 
just  now." 

"I  had  forgotten  how  poor  they  were." 

"I  was  fooled,  too,"  the  bishop  admitted.  "I  was 
fooled,  too — same  as  you  was.  First  off,  I  admit,  I 
didn't  know  what  to  think.  But  I  sort  of  had  my  sus 
picions.  Well,  one  afternoon  when  Alvah  and  the  colo- 


FAITH  AND  MORTGAGES  263 

nel  was  out  to  the  cemetery,  and  you  was  away,  I  went 
over  the  colonel's  private  papers.'* 

"You  damned  old  scoundrel!"  Davies  ejaculated. 

The  bishop  gave  him  a  glance  of  surprise,  but  wasn't 
otherwise  affected. 

"It  was  dirty,  I  admit,"  he  confessed,  without  shame. 
"But  it  had  to  be  done.  I  owed  it  to  you,  Chicky.  I 
don't  expect  your  gratitude.  But  I  was  doin*  it  on 
your  account." 

"On  my  account?" 

"On  your  account.  'Here's  Richard,'  I  says,  'think- 
in'  that,  anyway,'  I  says,  'he's  goin'  to  get  this  here 
house  and  lot  by  marryin'  the  niece ;  and  the  first  thing 
you  know,'  I  says,  'he's  goin'  to  find  himself  spliced 
up' — oh,  I  did  it  myself  when  I  was  your  age !  I  ain't 
makin'  sport  of  you ! — 'spliced  up,'  I  says,  'with  a  wife 
who's  like  to  be  a  sticker  and  not  even  this  old  ram 
shackle  dump  to  make  her  worth  while.*" 

Davies  would  have  broken  in  on  the  discourse,  but 
no  words  would  have  expressed  what  he  felt.  The 
bishop,  anyway,  wasn't  paying  any  attention  to  him. 
He  spied  an  old  corncob  pipe  that  some  printer  had 
left  at  the  top  of  the  case.  The  bishop  took  this,  saw 
that  there  was  half  a  load  in  it  under  the  ashes.  He 
lit  it,  took  a  puff  or  two.  But  it  wasn't  to  his  liking, 
and  he  put  the  pipe  back. 

The  interlude  was  sufficient  to  give  Davies  a  chance 
to  master  himself,  call  on  his  philosophy. 

"Bishop,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  tell  you  something. 
You  may  not  be  able  to  understand  it,  but  I'll  tell  you, 
anyway." 


264  IP  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Shoot." 

"I  haven't  asked  her  yet,  but  if— if  Alvsh— would 
marry  me  I'd  be  only  too  proud,  too  happy." 

"But  why?" 

"You  ought  to  know.    You  talk  about  it  enough." 

"What's  that?" 

"Love!" 

The  bishop  was  dazed. 

"Good  God!"  he  choked;  "you  make  me  look  like  an 
amateur.'* 


CHAPTER  XLII 

FAR  THUNDER. 

THE  weather  was  changing  from  fair  to  unsettled. 
It  was  hot.  It  was  humid.  Day  after  day  the  sun 
rode  brazen  through  a  blackish  mist.  From  time  to 
time  the  sound  of  distant  thunder  came  rolling  from 
points  beyond  the  horizon,  now  to  the  south,  now  to 
the  north,  again  from  the  east  or  from  the  west.  All 
this  premonitory  of  an  approaching  storm. 

Conditions  were  not  quite  normal.  A  storm  was 
needed  to  clear  the  atmosphere. 

And,  as  so  often  happens,  these  weather  conditions 
found,  if  not  their  reflection,  at  least  their  reflex  in 
the  spirit  of  the  people.  Something  was  coming  off — 
something  that  would  clear  the  atmosphere. 

This  was  so  with  St.  Clair  in  general. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it — Professor  Culbertson, 
of  London,  England,  had  got  under  the  skin  of  the 
town.  Long  ago,  the  council  chamber  in  the  town  hall 
had  proved  insufficient  to  accommodate  the  crowd.  So 
he  had  been  granted  the  use  of  the  Odd  Fellows*  Hall — 
a  place  with  a  reputation  for  size.  The  little  boys  of 
the  town  would  brag  about  it:  "We  got  the  biggest 
meetin'-place  in  the  county,  we  have!"  And  now  the 
illustrious  Culbertson  was  holding  his  meetings  there; 
and  filling  it,  too. 

265 


266  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Sniffing  the  Asphodel!  Oh-h-h,  how  they  iap  it 
up!" 

And  the  bishop  had  taken  to  the  curing  of  disease 
by  "laying  on  of  hands." 

That  was  one  of  the  purposes  of  the  Beating  Heart 
Seminary — to  cure  all  manner  of  aches,  tooth,  heart, 
and  soul.  He  was  going  to  have  room  in  the  semi 
nary  for  just  so  many.  Not  pupils,  but  disciples !  And 
he  was  getting  disciples  fast.  Disciples  of  the  Beating 
Heart!  Non-sectarian!  No  worthy  seeker  to  be 
turned  away  for  reasons  of  age  or  sex ! 

"That  always  fetches  them,"  said  old  Sky-Blue ;  "no 
worthy  seeker  turned  away  for  reasons  of  age  or  sex !" 

Then  Culbertson  had  let  it  be  known  to  his  faithful 
that  Wichita  wasn't  going  to  get  the  seminary  after 
all.  No!  After  prayerful  consideration,  and  after 
consultation  with  that  dear  sister  of  his  who  lived  out 
+here,  he  had  decided  that — as  a  mark  of  gratitude — 
and  love — he'd  establish  the  seminary  right  here  in  St. 
Clair. 

To  Colonel  Williams  and  Alvah  he  made  an  even 
more  disconcerting  promise.  He  told  them  that  they 
needn't  let  the  mortgage  on  the  Flowery  Harbor  worry 
them  any  more.  He  was  going  to  buy  the  Flowery 
Harbor  himself  and  make  this  the  seminary.  It  was 
a  plan  that  he  had  worked  out  with  his  dear  young 
friend  Richard.  Yes !  Richard  was  occupying  himself 
with  the  purchase  of  another  home  for  them.  But 
this  was  to  be  a  surprise.  They  mustn't  say  anything 
about  it  until  Richard  sprang  it  on  them  himself. 

And  Davies  could  tell  that  there  was  something  afoot 


FAR  THUNDER  267 

— something  that  he  couldn't  understand;  could  tell  it 
by  the  magic  softness  in  Alvah's  eyes  whenever  her 
eyes  met  his. 

Fifty  times  it  was  in  his  heart  and  on  his  lips  to  tell 
her  that  he  could  never  live  again  without  her,  that 
he  loved  her  so  he  would  surely  die  unless  she  became 
his  wife.  But  he  held  back.  He  hadn't  won  his  right 
to  her  yet.  He  was  still  in  the  midst  of  battle.  No ! 
He  was  on  the  eve  of  battle.  And  this  battle  was  to 
determine,  once  and  forever,  the  future  course  of  his 
life. 

Those  distant  thunderings  that  daily  came  out  of  the 
brazen  sky  had  as  much  a  personal  meaning  for  himself 
— his  inner,  intuitive  self — as  if  he  were  a  commanding 
general  and  these  the  rumbling  of  a  hostile  artillery. 

Nor  were  his  misgivings  wholly  intuitive.  They  had 
a  basis,  in  fact. 

Frank  Tine  was  showing  himself  to  be  increasingly 
shifty,  hard  to  locate,  difficult  to  cooperate  with. 

One  day  Davies  brought  into  town  a  rich  old  farmer 
who  was  ready  to  take  out  three  different  policies  for 
goodly  amounts,  and  Tine  failed  to  appear  at  the  of 
fice  at  the  hour  when  he  said  he  would  be  there.  And 
Davies  waited  just  so  long,  then  went  over  to  the  hotel, 
went  up-stairs  to  the  room  where  the  poker  game  was  in 
progress,  forced  his  way  in. 

Frank  was  sitting  in,  just  as  Davies  knew  he  would 
be — room  rather  dark,  crowded  but  quiet,  three  tables 
going. 

"I'll  see  you,*'  said  Frank  to  the  man  who  had  been 
bidding  against  him.  The  man  was  a  foreigner,  locally 


268  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

known  as  Jason,  a  professional,  white  but  burly,  venom 
ous-eyed,  a  friend  of  Gus,  in  charge  of  the  "kitty." 
"Three  aces,"  said  Jason. 

"And  I'll  see  you,"  said  Dick,  touching  Tine  on  the 
shoulder. 

"You're  buttin'  in,'*  snarled  Jason. 

There  came  back  to  Davies  a  whiff  of  poison  straight 
out  of  one  of  those  old  joints  he  had  known  in  lower 
Manhattan.  He  went  right  around  the  table  to  where 
Jason  sat,  shoved  a  marble-hard  fist  under  his  nose. 

"Say,  you  stiff,"  he  gritted,  "do  you  want  this  in 
the  puss?'' 

Jason  didn't,  and  the  incident  closed  by  Davies 
bringing  Tine  back  to  the  office. 

But  things  couldn't  go  on  like  this — not  indefinitely. 

And  there  was  the  way  Zeb  Ricketts  was  acting. 
There  was  something  about  Zeb  that  Davies  couldn't 
fathom.  Zeb  was  still  the  same  old  rube  on  the  surface 
— sly,  cautious  but  amiable.  A  little  too  amiable! 
That  was  it.  And  also  given  to  disappearances.  Not 
so  eager  as  he  should  have  been  to  talk  about  the  com 
ing  transfer  of  the  place. 

Then  Frank  Tine  disappeared. 

It  was  the  last  day  but  one  that  the  option  had  to 
run. 

Davies  kept  his  nerve.  He  had  more  than  enough 
money  coming  to  him  to  meet  his  payment.  Frank 
would  show  up,  give  him  the  promised  check.  There 
was  plenty  of  time  to  pass  this  through  the  bank — four 
hours — it  was  now  only  eleven. 

But  Tine  wasn't  to  be  located  anywhere — not  at  his 


FAR  THUNDER 

office,  nor  at  his  boarding  house,  nor  at  the  hotel.  At 
none  of  these  places  had  he  been  seen  even — not  since 
the  night  before. 

"You  ain't  the  only  one  that's  lookin'  for  him,"  said 
Constable  Winch.  "There's  "a  stranger  been  inquirin' 
for  him." 

"What  sort  of  a  stranger?" 

"A  slick  one — slick!"  The  constable  whispered: 
"If  you  ask  me,  he  looks  like  one  of  these  here  insur 
ance  inspectors." 

But  Davies  was  too  distraught  to  listen. 

Each  moment  dragged.  Yet  the  hours  were  wearing 
away.  And  all  this  time  it  was  as  if  some  great  weight 
was  suspended  over  himself,  and  St.  Clair,  and  the 
world,  ready  to  come  crushing  down. 

The  weather  had  something  to  do  with  this,  no  doubt 
— hotter,  stuffier,  an  increase  of  humidity,  recurrent 
thunder  from  the  west  and  south,  an  occasional  scat 
ter  of  drops,  large  and  warm,  as  if  the  sky  itself  were 
sweating  up  there. 

Three  o'clock  came,  and  still  no  Tine. 

Davies  imagined  the  desperate  measure  of  writing  out 
a  check  and  carrying  this  out  to  Zeb  Ricketts. 

"I'll  get  Tine  before  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "and  make  him  shell  out  what  he  owes  me 
if  I  have  to  kill  him." 

He  prepared  the  check.  He  called  for  his  rig  at 
Jellison's.  He  headed  for  the  Old  Homestead.  And 
all  the  time  he  was  doing  this  he  was  telling  himself 
that  everything  was  all  right,  that  it  was  bound  to  be 
all  right,  that  Luck  couldn't  take  a  fall  out  of  a  fel- 


270  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

low  who  had  been  trying  as  hard  as  he  had  to  do  the 
right  thing,  live  straight,  make  good. 

It  was  almost  as  if  Alvah  were  there  at  his  shoulder 
whispering  to  him,  telling  him  to  brace  up. 

But  while  he  was  still  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more 
away  from  the  farm  he  could  see  that  there  was  some 
thing  doing — could  see  a  couple  of  strange  wagons  in 
the  yard,  men  moving  about.  That  must  be  Zeb  mak 
ing  ready  for  the  transfer,  moving  out  the  last  of  his 
personal  effects. 

But  the  first  person  he  recognized  when  he  came 
driving  up  the  private  lane  from  the  pike  was  Peebles, 
Harold  Peebles — Tessie  Wingate's  latest  flame — that 
handsome  lawyer  who  was  to  have  engineered  Simp 
Fisher *s  suit  for  damages. 

What  was  he  doing  there  ? 

And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  Peebles  merely  gave 
Davies  a  look  of  semi-polite  inquiry,  not  untouched  by 
a  certain  insolence,  such  as  any  landholder  is  apt  to 
turn  on  a  trespasser. 

As  for  Zeb  Ricketts,  Zeb  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Davies's  heart  began  to  pound. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 

LIGHTNING 

"WHERE'S  Zeb?"  asked  Davies. 

"Wto?" 

"Zeb  Ricketts." 

Peebles  was  distant.     He  was  cold. 

"Mr.  Ricketts?" 

"Yes." 

"I  ioa't  know." 

Peebles  discovered  that  his  advice  was  needed  by  one 
of  the  workmen  nearer  the  house.  Davies  looked  at 
these  workmen — two  painters,  a  carpenter.  They  ap 
peared  to  expect  their  orders  from  Harold.  Davies 
got  out  and  hitched  his  horse.  His  heart  had  ceased 
to  pound.  His  heart  was  standing  still. 

"Oh,  Peebles,"  he  called;  and  he  was  afraid  that  his 
voice  would  betray  him. 

"In  a  moment,"  Harold  answered  him. 

Dairies  breathed  deep.  Finally,  the  handsome  lawyer 
turned  aad  hailed  him. 

"Well,  what  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  Davies  replied. 

"Go  ahead." 

"In  prirate." 

As  luck  would  have  it,  there  was  a  sharp  patter  of 

271 


272  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

rain.  It  sent  the  painters  and  the  carpenter  to  scurry 
ing  around  to  the  back  of  the  house,  brought  Harold 
and  Davies  together  on  the  porch.  That  porch! 
Where,  in  fancy,  Davies  had  seen  Alvah  swing! 

"Say,"  Davies  exclaimed,  softly;  "just  what's  the 
idea?  What  do  you  think  you're  doing  here?" 

Possibly  Peebles  was  influenced  by  the  fact  that 
Davies's  verbal  assault  had  been  so  softly  spoken  that 
the  workmen  could  not  hear  and  that  hence  he  had  no 
witnesses.  He  also  elected  to  speak  softly. 

"Why,  I  own  the  place." 

"You  own  the  place !" 

"Perfectly." 

"Not  yet  you  don't." 

"Surely,  you  are  mistaken." 

"I've  still  got  an  option  on  the  place,  and  it  runs  to 
six,  and  I've  got  the  money  to  complete  the  pay 
ment " 

He  was  stretching  the  facts  a  little.  But  it  didn't 
matter.  He  could  sense  the  adamant  back  of  Harold's 
putty  prettiness,  and  the  adamant  was  not  of  Harold's 
own.  It  was  the  adamant  of  law  and  circumstance  and 
of  the  ordinance  of  God.  And  this,  Davies  was  saying 
to  himself — or  some  inner  voice  was  saying  for  him — 
was  a  part  of  the  debt  that  he  owed  to  society.  This 
was  a  punishment  that  had  come  upon  him. 

"Very  strange."  Peebles  was  saying. 

And  there  wasn't  the  slightest  perturbation  in  the 
fellow's  voice.  Peebles  was  a  lawyer. 

"I'm  giving  it  to  you  straight,"  said  Davies. 

"No  doubt." 


LIGHTNING 

"And  where  do  you  come  in?" 

"Precisely  where  you  say  you  come  in — only,  in 
stead  of  an  option,  I  have  purchased  the  place  out 
right,  from  the  Slocum  heirs,  through  Mr.  Ricketts, 
Mr.  Tine  acting  as  my  agent." 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  truth  of  all  this. 
There  had  been  plenty  of  collateral  evidence — enough 
to  have  warned  him  had  he  not  been  so  infatuated  with 
what  else  had  been  going  on.  And  Peebles,  who  was 
not  hard-hearted,  read  collapse  in  Davies's  eyes,  and 
possibly  thought  to  put  him  out  of  his  misery  with  a 
coup  de  grace. 

"You  haven't  got  a  leg  to  stand  on,"  he  blurted. 

"You  lie !"  cried  Davies. 

Peebles  got  the  danger-signal  an  instant  too  late. 
He  had  started  to  run.  But  Davies  had  seized  him  by 
both  lapels  of  his  coat,  held  him  powerless.  There 
was  a  momentary  pause.  It  was  long  enough  for  the 
New  Yorker  to  get  back  this  power  of  thought. 

"In  here  for  you,"  he  said,  "where  there  won't  be  any 
witnesses." 

And  he  shoved  the  lawyer  against  the  front  door  with 
such  force  that  the  door  gave  and  they  stumbled  into 
the  front  parlor  of  the  house — twilit,  musty,  with  old 
haircloth  furniture  and  crayon  portraits  glowering  at 
them  out  of  the  gloom. 

"What  do  you  want?"  Peebles  panted. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"This  is  an  assault." 

"So  is  this !" 

And  Davies  shook  him. 


274  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Peebles,  floundering,  found  his  hand  in  contact  with 
one  of  those  pink  conch-shells  once  popular  as  orna 
ments,  sharp-edged,  weighing  about  a  pound.  An  ugly 
weapon.  He  tried  to  use  it.  But  Davies  knocked  the 
thing  from  Peebles's  hand,  hurled  Peebles,  crashing, 
into  an  old  haircloth  armchair.  There  Peebles  sat. 

There  was  a  quaver  of  lightning. 

In  the  flickering  illumination  the  crayon  portraits 
showed  themselves  ugly  and  dark,  placid  and  solemn — 
Aunt  Polly  Slocum,  her  hair  in  a  net,  breastpin  as  big 
as  a  saucer;  Uncle  Norman,  chin-whiskers,  slightly 
cross-eyed;  Little  Sammy,  preternaturally  old.  They 
were  all  looking  down  at  the  scene  like  mourners  at  a 
funeral. 

It  was  a  funeral. 

For  Richard  Davies  it  was.     His  own! 

But  he  made  an  effort,  brought  himself  back  to  life 
again.  He  contemplated  Peebles. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  ordered. 

"It  was  Frank  Tine,"  said  Peebles.  "He  told  me 
that  it  would  be  all  right — that  you  weren't  going  to 
make  your  option  good. 

"So  he  knew  about  my  option?" 

"Yes." 

"What  was  the  rush?" 

"Frank  was  in  a  hurry.     He  wanted  the  money." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  last  I  saw  him  was  late  last 
night." 

"AndZebRicketts?" 

"I  don't  know." 


LIGHTNING  275 

Davies  took  a  step  in  advance.  He  put  out  a  finger 
and  thrust  up  Peebles's  chin. 

"Look  me  in  the  eye,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  what  you 
do  know." 

"I  was  in  a  hurry,  too,"  said  Peebles.  "I  promised 
this  place  to  Tessie  Wingate.  She  was  mad  when  she 
heard  you  were  likely  to  get  it." 

"Tessie  Wingate !     What  has  she  got  to  do  with  it?" 

"We're  getting  married — to-morrow." 

There  was  a  sharper  flash  of  lightning,  a  bang  of 
splitting  thunder. 

"It  must  have  struck  something,"  said  Peebles,  try 
ing  to  get  back  to  normal. 

"It's  me  that's  been  struck,"  said  Davies  in  his 
heart. 

But  his  mind  also  curiously  sought  the  normal — a 
shipwrecked  sailor  pulling  for  the  shore.  He  thought 
of  his  horse  out  there  without  shelter.  Yes.  He'd 
better  get  it  under  a  shed,  or  be  getting  back  to  town. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

BEFORE    THE    STORM 

THERE  had  been  a  slight  gust  of  rain,  but  this  had 
stopped.  The  storm  held  off,  rumbling,  quivering. 
The  atmosphere  was  heavier  than  ever.  With  a  quick 
ened  pace  that  needed  no  whip,  the  old  horse  swung 
into  the  road  that  led  back  to  town. 

Davies  wasn't  organizing  his  thought  into  words,  but 
he  was  undoubtedly  praying  for  light.  And  light  was 
to  be  vouchsafed  him.  To  some  extent  it  was. 

Just  as  he  neared  the  railroad  line  the  gates  went 
down  and  he  heard  the  four-twenty-three  local  climb 
ing  the  hill  out  of  St.  Clair.  He  idly  watched  the  train 
draw  near.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait.  The 
engine  was  old.  The  train  was  a  composite  of  freight 
and  passenger  cars.  There  for  a  while  it  looked  as  if 
the  old  locomotive  would  never  be  able  to  top  the  grade 
at  all. 

"That's  me,"  Davies  reflected.  "I'm  pulling  a  load 
like  that.  It's  breaking  my  back." 

And  he  found  himself  panting  and  straining,  trying 
to  help  the  engine  along.  It  was  going  to  mean  some 
thing  to  him  if  the  train  got  over  the  rise.  If  the  loco 
motive  got  away  with  it,  why,  so  would  he.  The  out 
fit  couldn't  have  been  making  more  than  three  miles  an 

276 


BEFORE  THE  STORM  277 

hour.  It  crossed  the  pike — first  the  locomotive,  then 
a  dozen  milk-cars,  then  a  carload  of  squealing  pigs, 
then  the  smoker. 

Just  as  the  smoker  was  half-way  past,  he  caught  the 
gleam  of  a  celluloid  collar  inside  an  open  window.  And 
that  was  Zeb  Ricketts  in  there,  all  dressed  up,  smok 
ing  a  cigar,  outward  bound. 

The  thing  smote  Davies ;  but  not  in  the  way  it  would 
have  smitten  him  earlier  in  his  career — not  in  the  way 
that  he  himself  would  have  expected  five  minutes  ago, 
perhaps. 

"Easy  money!" 

Yea,  Lord!  That  was  a  picture  of  easy  money  he 
had  seen.  Zeb  was  a  fool.  But  there  were  others  in 
the  world. 

The  light  was  still  with  him,  the  mental  bedazzle- 
ment,  as  the  remainder  of  the  train  rumbled  past.  And 
he  scarcely  noticed  that  the  cars  were  going  at  a  faster 
pace,  that  the  old  locomotive  had  topped  the  grade. 

What  he  noticed  was  that  a  new  Ford  had  been  held 
up  by  the  gates  on  the  other  side  of  the  track,  and  that 
there  was  also  some  one  in  this  car  whom  he  recognized. 
It  was  Tessie  Wingate.  She  so  absorbed  his  attention 
that  he  had  no  eyes  at  all  for  Tessie's  companion — he 
who  drove — whoever  that  might  be. 

Should  he  say  something  to  her? 

Should  he  call  out  something  cutting  and  ironical 
about  that  new  home  of  hers? 

But  before  he  could  make  up  his  mind,  the  gates 
swung  up  and  the  little  automobile  gave  a  jump.  It 


278  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

was  past  him.  Then  it  had  come  to  a  sudden  stop,  and 
Davies  was  hearing  his  name. 

"Dick!" 

That  was  Tessie.  She  had  nerve.  What  did  she 
want  ?  He  pulled  up  his  horse  and  looked  back.  Tes 
sie  had  risen  from  her  seat,  was  standing  up. 

"Hello !"  said  Davies. 

"I  want  you  to  congratulate  me,"  she  called  out  to 
him. 

"What  on?" 

"My  marriage." 

"Oh !" 

"You're  the  first  I've  told." 

"You're  a  little  slow,  Tessie,"  he  said,  without  un- 
kindness.  "I've  just  seen  Harold." 

"Harold!" 

A  look  of  amused  embarrassment  swept  oyer  Tessie's 
plump  features.  But  she  had  hardly  echoed  the  name 
of  the  lawyer  before  the  driver  of  the  car  stretched 
his  neck  and  also  looked  around.  It  was  Simp  Fisher, 
disguised  with  goggles  and  cap. 

"Congratulate  me,  too,"  he  called.  "It's  an  elope 
ment,  and  I'm  the  lucky  man." 

The  Ford  sprang  away. 

Was  Harold  destined  to  see  them  pass? 

"I  should  worry,"  said  Davies.  But  it  occurred  to 
him  that  this  might  be  the  day  of  sorrows  for  others 
than  himself. 

This  occurred  to  him  again  and  with  an  increased 
weight  when  he  finally  drove  up  to  the  curb  in  front  of 
the  two-story  brick  building  where  Frank  Tine  had  his 


BEFORE  THE  STORM 

office.  Constable  Winch,  who  evidently  had  been  wait 
ing  for  him  there,  jumped  across  the  sidewalk  before  he 
could  leave  the  buggy. 

"Drive  off  with  me,"  said  Winch,  in  low,  excited 
tones. 

"What  for?" 

"Tell  you  when  we're  away  from  here." 

"Tell  me  here." 

"Can't." 

"What  do  you  want?"  Dick  demanded,  brutally. 
"Want  to  make  another  touch?" 

Winch  ignored  the  aspersion. 

"He's  skipped.    I'm  warning  you." 

"Who's  skipped?" 

"Tine — and  none  too  soon.  You  know  what  I  told 
you." 

So  Tine  had  skipped.  He  could  believe  the  story 
easily  enough.  He  should  have  seen  it  all  in  advance. 
He  had  been  sufficiently  warned.  He  considered  a  mo 
ment. 

"Don't  lose  no  time,"  said  Winch.  "I've  throwed  him 
off  your  trail.  I'll  go  with  you — tell  you  the  rest  as 
we  go  along." 

"Thrown  who  off  my  trail?" 

"That  slick  stranger  I  was  tellin'  you  about." 

"Ah,  go  on!"  said  Davies,  and  he  got  out  of  the 
buggy,  hitched  his  horse. 

All  the  time  that  he  was  doing  it  the  constable  was 
flustering  around  him  like  a  hen  with  a  single  chick. 

"You're  crazy,"  said  Winch.  "He's  up  there  in  the 
office  now,  mad  as  a  hornet  at  lettin*  Tine  give  him  the 


280  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

slip.  Insurance  inspector.  Power  to  arrest.  He'll 
throw  all  the  blame  on  you." 

Davies  turned  on  Winch. 

"What  do  you  think  I  am?"  he  demanded.  "A 
crook?" 

He  shouldered  the  constable  to  one  side,  without 
apology,  and  started  for  the  door  of  the  hallway. 

There  he  paused  again,  had  a  glance  for  the  brooding 
storm.  The  weather  was  hotter  than  ever,  more  oppres 
sive.  All  the  smile  and  lure  of  nature  had  gone  out 
of  it.  God,  but  he  was  homesick  just  then  for  the  city 
of  his  youth ! 


CHAPTER  XLV 

SHELTER 

"DON'T  mind  if  I  go  up  with  you,  do  you?"  the  con 
stable  asked,  with  a  touch  of  nerves. 

It  was  clear  that  Winch  was  peeved  a  little,  just  a 
trifle  hurt  at  Davies's  cool  reception  of  his  news,  es 
pecially  of  his  hint  at  flight ;  but  Mr.  Winch  was  stand 
ing  on  his  dignity — as  one  must  who  has  done  all  that 
one  can  in  difficult  circumstances. 

"No,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Davies. 

He  was  beyond  the  stage  of  minding  anything  very 
much.  So  he  felt  at  that  particular  moment.  But  he 
wondered  somewhat  at  the  present  interest  of  the  con 
stable.  That  Winch  should  have  warned  him  to  flee 
was  comprehensible  enough.  Had  he  accepted  the  warn 
ing,  Winch  would  have  regarded  this  as  the  legitimate 
occasion  for  another  touch.  That  was  all.  And  he 
would  have  stood  absolved  of  those  former  so-called 
loans  as  well.  Sufficient  inspiration  all  this  for  Winch, 
God  bless  his  honest  heart!  But  what  could  Winch 
be  up  to  now? 

Winch  reached  the  top  of  the  stairs  first.  He  threw 
open  the  office  door. 

"Well,  inspector,"  he  announced;  "here's  your 
man!" 

281 


282  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Davies  paused. 

But  before  he  could  find  any  words  to  express  the 
newly  awakened  sentiments  that  were  bubbling  inside 
of  him,  a  cheery  voice  was  booming  from  the  interior 
of  the  room  inviting  them  both  to  enter. 

Davies  saw  a  large  man — exceedingly  large — a  fat 
man  with  a  round  face — occupying  the  chair  which 
had  been  Frank  Tine's. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Davies ;  I  am  Mr.  Marsh." 

Mr.  Marsh's  face  may  have  been  round,  but  it  was 
strong  like  his  voice.  There  was  something  of  the  tur 
tle  in  his  look,  and  yet  something  of  the  bulldog,  and 
more  than  a  hint  of  the  characteristic  tenacity  of  both 
these  brutes.  But  his  eyes  were  sympathetic,  intelli 
gent,  steady. 

"Ahem!" — this  from  Constable  Winch. 

" Just  a  moment,"  suggested  Mr.  Marsh,  diverting  his 
good-natured  gaze  to  the  constable.  "You  asked  me 
a  little  while  ago  if  there  was  anything  in  it  for  you 
if  you  brought  in  Mr.  Davies.  There  is.  Read  Section 
299  of  the  Revised  Statutes,  making  it  a  felony  for  a 
state  or  county  officer  to  solicit  a  bribe.  That's  all." 

And  Mr.  Marsh  kept  his  good-natured  gaze  on  Mr. 
Winch  as  the  latter,  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  tiptoed 
out  of  the  room. 

It  was  close  on  to  eight  o'clock  when  Davies  left  the 
big  man,  and  by  this  time  Davies  knew  a  number  of 
things — but  nothing  very  much,  as  he  had  to  admit. 

At  Mr.  Marsh's  invitation,  they  had  supped  to 
gether  at  the  hotel.  Mr.  Marsh  had  vouchsafed  the  in 
formation  that  he  was  not  the  inspector  Mr.  Winch 


SHELTER  283 

had  believed  him  to  be,  but  he  was  the  general  agent 
for  the  district.  And  there  his  information  about  him 
self  had  just  about  come  to  an  end  apart  from  a  few 
general  impressions — married,  several  children,  an  in 
difference  to  food,  an  appetite  for  facts. 

Davies  was  the  one  who  furnished  the  information. 

"Turned  me  wrong-side  out,"  he  said,  after  he  had 
bade  Mr.  Marsh  good  night.  He  spoke  to  the  night: 
"Turned  me  wrong-side  out !" 

And  he  was  a  little  humiliated,  a  little  sick,  very 
down-spirited.  A  fine  man  of  the  world!  A  slick  cus 
tomer,  forsooth !  The  events  of  the  day  had  begun  their 
sure  reaction.  Yea,  bo!  He  had  come  all  the  way 
back  here  to  the  bushes  so  that  the  jay-hawkers  could 
batten  on  him,  play  him  for  a  rube !  Him  marry  Alvah 
Morley?  Why,  he  wasn't  fit  to  marry  a  Chink! 

There  was  a  deadly  practical  side,  moreover,  to  these 
reflections  of  his  concerning  Alvah. 

Now  that  there  was  no  immediate  danger  of  the 
mortgage  being  foreclosed  on  the  Flowery  Harbor,  and 
a  fair  chance — call  it  that — of  old  Sky-Blue  buying  the 
place  for  some  purpose  or  other,  wasn't  it  so  that 
perhaps  Alvah  would  be  better  off  if  he  were  out  of 
the  way?  Had  he  any  right  to  hang  around  and  com 
promise  the  girl's  future,  and  take  advantage  of  her 
innocence  and  her  ignorance  of  the  world,  now  that  she 
and  her  uncle  were  no  longer,  so  to  speak,  dependent 
on  him? 

These  breedings  became  all  the  more  insistent  when 
he  arrived  at  the  house  and  found  it  deserted.  Of 
course!  Every  one  was  around  at  the  Odd  Fellows' 


284  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Hall.  They  were  all  crazy  about  Sky-Blue.  All  of 
them  were. 

And  this  was  the  way  of  the  world. 

Here  was  he  himself,  Richard  Davies.  He  had  come 
to  St.  Clair  and  attempted  to  lead  the  honest  life.  And 
how  had  St.  Clair  treated  him?  It  had  knifed  him, 
thrown  him  down,  turned  him  wrong-side  out,  done  to 
him  as  much  as  New  York  had  ever  done  to  any  man, 
and  more. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  old  Sky-Blue,  as 
crooked  as  a  dog's  hind  leg,  thinking  of  graft  and 
dreaming  of  graft,  working  for  his  own  pocket  all  the 
time,  laughing  at  those  who  believed  in  him,  calling 
them  suckers!  And  how  had  St.  Clair  treated  him? 
It  had  gone  wild  over  him,  clasped  him  to  its  bosom, 
wept  over  him,  stood  ready  to  give  him  everything  it 
had! 

"The  whole  world's  like  that,"  said  Dick. 

He  let  the  truth  sink  in. 

"You'd  better  go  down  to  the  river  and  drown  your 
self,"  he  said;  and  he  meant  it. 

But  should  he? 

Wouldn't  it  be  better,  after  all,  if  he  fell  in  with  old 
Sky-Blue,  accepted  the  bishop's  offer  of  partnership, 
resumed  for  himself  the  career  of  graft?  Why  not? 
The  world  wouldn't  mind.  The  world  would  think  all 
the  better  of  him  for  it.  The  world  had  proved  this, 
not  once  but  a  thousand  times;  not  only  here  in  St. 
Clair,  but  back  in  old  New  York. 

He  had  been  walking,  he  hadn't  noticed  where;  so 


SHFXTER  285 

engrossed  in  his  bitterness  and  dejection  that  he  was 
oblivious  to  all  that  was  passing  about  him. 

Then,  all  at  once,  there  came  a  gust  of  wind.  There 
followed  instantly  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning  right 
ahead  of  him,  this  followed  so  instantly  by  a  burst  of 
thunder  that  the  double  blow  blinded  and  deafened  him, 
almost  knocked  him  from  his  feet. 

As  he  groped,  he  saw  one  of  the  big  maple  trees,  just 
ahead  of  him,  sag  lopsidedly  to  a  fall,  and  he  knew 
that  he  had  escaped  death  by  the  fraction  of  a  minute. 

But  no  sooner  had  this  concept  and  its  incidental 
lessons  come  reeling  into  his  brain  before  he  was  de 
luged  with  rain — a  sheeted  downpour — and  he  was  mak 
ing  a  jump  for  an  open  door.  Any  port  in  a  storm, 
and  here  was  a  door  that  was  wide  open  and  well-lighted. 

He  was  in  the  place  before  he  recognized  it. 

He  was  in  the  lobby  of  the  Odd  Fellows*  Hall,  and 
the  doors  of  the  hall  itself  were  open.  He  could  see  that 
the  hall  was  packed,  that  there  were  a  good  many  peo 
ple  who  had  been  unable  to  secure  seats.  There  was 
a  clapping  of  hands,  a  ripple  of  muffled  laughter  and 
talk. 

Old  Sky-Blue  never  did  let  his  meetings  fall  into  sad 
ness  for  any  length  of  time.  Right  on  top  of  some 
sad  story  or  other  he'd  crack  a  joke  and  have  every 
one  wiping  away  his  tears  and  laughing  at  the  same 
time.  And  that  was  what  he  was  doing  now,  no  doubt. 

The  dirty  old  hypocrite !  But  Davies  felt  a  tug  of 
interest  in  spite  of  himself. 

And  just  then  there  followed  a  surprise. 
-  One  of  the  volunteer  ushers  of  the  place — one  of  Pro- 


286  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

fessor  Culbertson's  devoted  young  disciples — had  seen 
Davies,  had  jumped  for  him. 

"They've  been  holding  a  place  for  you,"  the  young 
man  said. 

"Who?'* 

"Every  one,"  he  grinned,  gladly.  "You're  wanted  up 
among  the  professor's  friends." 

Why  not? 

Davies  braced  himself. 

He  followed  the  usher  around  through  a  side  aisle  and 
up  through  the  shimmer  and  the  smell  of  the  crowd 
and  the  flickering  gas.  The  convocation  began  to  sing 
the  second  verse  of  a  hymn : 

"Brighten  the  corner — where  you  areP* 

And  Davies  caught  a  slant  of  old  Sky-Blue  smiling 
down  at  him  with  an  expression  intended  to  convey  dot 
ing  affection — and  perhaps  the  look,  at  that,  was  sin 
cere,  Lord  pity  the  old  fraud !  Also  he  saw  the  colonel, 
up  on  the  platform,  filling  almost,  if  not  quite,  the 
majesty  of  his  Mobile  coat;  then,  at  the  colonel's  side, 
Alvah,  meditative,  but  suddenly  aware  of  him,  and,  at 
Alvah's  side,  the  vacant  chair. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

THE    GUIDING    LIGHT 

OLD  Sky-Blue,  otherwise  Professor  Culbertson,  had 
worked  the  town  up  to  the  psychological  moment  for  a 
grand  and  glorious  harvest.  There  was  no  doubt  of 
that.  The  singing  over,  there  was  a  long  pause,  very 
effective,  and  then  a  rippling  murmur  of  breath  and 
clothing,  and  a  number  of  voices,  well  distributed 
throughout  the  hall,  calling  for  the  Chautauqua  salute, 
so  that,  by  the  time  old  Sky-Blue  stood  up  there  beam 
ing  through  his  snowy  whiskers  the  whole  congregation 
was  a  flutter  of  handkerchiefs.  Nor  did  Sky-Blue  try 
to  stop  them.  Not  he!  He  let  them  wave  and  he 
beamed  and  beamed. 

It  was  only  when  he  saw  that  folks  were  getting  a  lit 
tle  tired,  and  that  the  salute  was  becoming  a  little 
forced,  that  he  raised  his  arms  above  his  head.  And 
he  stood  like  that  for  perhaps  half  a  minute — as  strik 
ing  an  imitation  of  a  sure-enough  prophet  as  one  would 
care  to  see  anywhere — until  the  hall  was  still  and  silent 
again. 

Not  until  then  were  folks  permitted  to  discover  how 
deeply  moved  he  had  been  all  along.  He  lowered  his 
arms  and  dug  around  until  he  discovered  his  own  hand- 

287 


288          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

kerchief,  and  he  had  to  use  it  for  almost  another  full 
minute  before  he  was  able  to  control  his  voice. 

Even  then  his  voice  was  frail  and  shaky  for  a  time. 

"If  I  was  to  obey  the  feelings  in  my  heart,"  he  said. 
Then  he  stopped.  There  was  a  pitcher  of  water  and  a 
glass  tumbler  on  a  small  table  at  his  side.  He  looked  at 
this.  He  poured  a  little  water  into  the  glass.  The 
crowd  watched  him  with  rapt  attention  while  he  drank. 
"If  I  was  to  obey  the  feelings  in  my  heart '* 

"Quit  your  stallin',"  said  Davies  in  silence. 

He  and  Alvah  were  seated  very  close  together.  Every 
one  was  crowded.  The  platform  was  packed.  Looking 
down,  Davies  saw  Alvah's  hand  close  to  his  own.  Some 
impulse  made  him  extend  his  little  finger.  She  received 
it  in  a  smooth  grasp.  Life  wasn't  so  terrible. 

"Oh-h-h!"  chanted  old  Sky-Blue,  getting  into  his 
stride,  "the  blessin's  of  affection.  Verily  was  it  writ 
that  an  affectionate  nature  is  like  unto  a  well-spring  in 
a  thirsty  land." 

"You  said  a  mouthful,  then,"  smiled  Davies. 

"Let  us  extend  these  blessin's,"  Culbertson  rhapso 
dized.  "Let  us  make  this  community  a  center  of  affec 
tion,  where  the  weary  pilgrims  along  life's  dry  'n*  dusty 
highways  can  quaff  a  little  sweetness  ere  they  lay 
them  down." 

And  every  now  and  then  old  Sky-Blue  let  his  brilliant 
little  eyes  flicker  into  Davies's  eyes,  and  Davies  could 
see  that  the  old  man  was  smiling  back  of  his  beard. 

"You're  a  skin,"  said  Davies  silently. 

But  Culbertson  was  rapidly  approaching  the  main 
object  of  this  particular  meeting: 


THE  GUIDING  LIGHT  289 

"No,  it  ain't  the  moneys,  my  beloved.  A  leetle  affec 
tion  and  the  sign  and  the  symbol  thereof  as  represented 
by  your  blessed  names  on  these  blanks."  He  used  his 
handkerchief  again.  "I  will  have  already  gone  to  the 
h-h-eavenly  shore,  but  when  other  eyes  'n  mine  behold 
these  tokens  they  will  say:  'Oh-h-h,  how  they  loved 
him!  See  him!  Culbertson!  In  his  white  raiment! 
Lookin'  back  from  the  Golden  Bank * " 

"It's  another  bank  you're  thinkin'  about,  you  old 
stiff,'*  said  Davies  in  his  heart. 

"The  moneys  V  comin'  from  elsewheres,  beloved! 
Pledges  from  you !  Nothin*  but  pledges !  Pledges  to 
seal  our  love  in  heaven  'n*  to  be  paid  solely  'n  love 
amongst  ourselves  on  earth!  For  the  moneys'll  be 
comin'  from  the  ministers  'n'  the  college  presidents  *n' 
the  captains  of  industry  'n'  the  Governors  of  States  'n' 
a-a-11  those  other  leaders  in  this  gr-e-at  'n*  gul-orious 
Ian'  who've  been  beggin9  fer  a  share  in  'stablishin'  the 
Beating  Heart." 

The  old  man  gushed  words  and  tears.  He  was  fairly 
slopping  over  with  sentimentality.  And  there  for  a 
time  he  almost  had  Davies  himself  hypnotized.  Davies 
was  conscious  of  the  currents  of  feeling  that  were 
already  swirling  into  the  main  channel  of  the  bishop's 
discourse — trickles  from  unstable  hearts  and  minds. 

But  he  glanced  at  Alvah,  found  her  radiant  and  cool. 

She  had  the  subtle  expression  of  a  girl  who  looks  in 
one  direction  with  her  physical  eyes  and  elsewhere  with 
her  mind's  eye. 

Davies  discovered  that  his  hat  wasn't  properly  placed 


290          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

under  his  chair;  and,  by  bending  low  to  adjust  it,  was 
able  to  brush  Alvah's  hand  with  his  lips. 

How  sensitive  were  his  lips! 

There  for  a  second  or  two  all  the  finely  developed, 
highly  evolved  sense-organisms  of  the  human  race,  mil 
lions  of  years  old,  were  merged  again  into  that  parent 
sense  which  through  the  ages  became  specialized  into 
sight  and  hearing,  taste  and  smell;  and  this  parent 
sense  was  concentrated  and  epitomized  in  that  fraction 
of  lip-tegument  which  was  in  contact  with  Alvah's  hand. 

It  was  either  less  than  a  kiss  or  more  than  a  kiss — 
in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word. 

For,  right  there  in  the  crowded  hall,  with  all  those 
other  more  or  less  highly  evolved  human  animals  herded 
close  about  him,  and  with  the  gas-jets  flickering,  and 
old  Sky-Blue  mouthing  his  platitudes,  Davies's  soul  took 
flight.  It  was  like  a  flight  which  had  its  beginning 
from  the  original  resting-place  of  souls — back  in  the 
Eozoic  abyss  where  life  began ;  then  curved  swiftly  up 
and  around  the  mounting  spiral  through  shales  and 
gravels,  caves  and  cabins,  pyramids,  cathedrals — wher 
ever  the  ego  had  groped  for  its  mate ;  and  on  beyond 
all  present  experience  into  a  higher  realm  where  men 
and  women  were  garbed  more  gorgeously  than  butter 
flies  and  lived  like  gods. 

Davies  straightened  up.  To  all  appearances  nothing 
had  happened.  But  the  conviction  was  singing  in  his 
brain  that  he  had  passed  the  crisis  of  his  life. 

Besides,  the  weather  had  changed.  That  sharp  and 
terrific  thunderstorm  had  cleared  the  air.  It  was  still 
raining,  but  gently.  Even  here  in  the  hall  the  atmo- 


THE  GUIDING  LIGHT 

sphere  was  less  acrid  and  sultry.  Every  now  and  then 
from  some  open  window  there  came  in  a  surge  of  ozone 
bringing  with  it  the  cool  fragrance  of  wet  trees  and 
gardens. 

There  had  been  a  fairly  long  hiatus  in  the  bishop's 
address  so  far  as  Davies  was  concerned — and  possibly 
so  far  as  Alvah  also  was  concerned ;  but  Sky-Blue  still 
harped  on  the  "Song  of  Songs,"  mouthing  the  word, 
rolling  it  over  and  over  on  his  tongue: 

"Love!" 

"You  know  a  lot  about  it,"  said  Davies,  with  fierce 
but  silent  irony. 

Love  and  money ! 

Davies  cast  a  quick  glance  back  over  his  immediate 
past. 

Was  it  possible  that  only  a  few  brief  minutes  ago  he 
had  been  harboring  the  idea  of  surrendering  himself  to 
this  vile  old  man?  Better  would  it  have  been  to  have 
given  himself  over  to  that  other  impulse  and  to  have 
drowned  himself !  What  had  become  of  his  doubts — his 
weakness — his  fears — his  bitterness? 

Gone! 

Love  had  driven  them  away.  His  love!  Alvah's 
love !  A  love  that  was  infinite ! 

"Oh,  God  Almighty !"  breathed  Davies. 

And  he  was  looking  at  old  Sky-Blue  again  with  the 
knowledge  in  his  heart  that  here  was  one  who  sinned 
against  the  Holy  Ghost  and  that  it  was  his,  Richard 
Davies's,  duty  to  destroy  him. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

ARMAGEDDON 

BUT  how  was  he  going  to  do  this  ?  He  was  all  alone 
— all  alone  except  for  Alvah — and  Alvah  was  unwarned. 

"Just  sign  fer  all  you  can,"  old  Sky-Blue  was  in 
toning  gently ;  "an  'en,  when  I  go  out  to  announce  my 
resolution  to  the  world,  I  can  say:  'Behold!  Behold! 
Of  such  be  the  faithful  of  St.  Clair !  They  didn't  do  this 
because  of  the  ten  per  cent  profit — nor  the  twenty  per 
cent,  or  thirty  per  cent.  Nay !  Nay  !'  Though  verily 
the  profits  will  wax  exceeding  great — as  I  can  tell  you 
now,  my  beloved,  they  will — fer,  lo !  it  has  been  granted 
unto  me  like  a  vision,  and  I  saw  the  marble  halls  and 
the  gilded  domes  even  as  of  a  new  Jerusalem,  and  lo ! 
the  name  thereof  was  the  Seminary  of  the  Beating 
Heart,  and  lo !  I  looked  again  and  they  that  entered 
in  and  they  that  issued  forth  did  wear  fine  raiment  and 
rode  in  goodly  autos." 

"He's  leading  up  to  the  touch,"  said  Davies  in  his 
heart. 

It  was  so. 

The  bishop  was  calling  up  his  ushers.  One  of  the 
first  was  that  preternaturally  glad  but  pale  young  man 
who  had  ushered  Davies  to  the  platform.  And  the 

292 


ARMAGEDDON  293 

bishop  was  giving  them  sheafs  of  those  blank  checks 
which  he  himself  had  set  up  and  run  off  over  at  the 
Messenger  office ;  also  bunches  of  folders  containing  his 
recommendations  from  the  King  of  Sweden  and  others 
— these  for  any  strangers  who  happened  to  be  present. 

And  Davies  saw,  not  without  a  flash  of  consternation, 
that  in  accordance  with  some  prearranged  plan  the 
outer  doors  had  been  closed  so  that  no  one  could  escape, 
even  should  the  rain  stop. 

Then  Sky-Blue  nodded  at  the  St.  Clair  Male  Quartet, 
and  the  quartet  banged  straight  into  one  of  those  old 
revival  jingles  that  anybody  can  follow,  no  one  can 
resist : 

"It's  the   old-time  religion, 
It's  the  old-time  'eligion, 
It's  the  old-time  'eligion, 
And  it's  good  enough   fer  me!" 

It  wasn't  a  dozen  seconds  before  every  one  was  sing 
ing  it,  and  a  lot  of  people  were  stamping  their  feet 
as  well. 

Ushers  scattering.  Hysteria  mounting.  Old  Sky- 
Blue  waving  his  arms  and  shouting  a  note  or  two  him 
self. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  excitment  Sky-Blue  re 
mained  the  master  of  both  himself  and  the  situation. 
He  saw  a  little  old  woman  down  in  front  of  the  plat 
form.  Davies  saw  her,  too.  She  was  not  only  little 
and  old,  but  she  was  manifestly  poor — dressed  in  black, 
a  little  old  black  bonnet  on  her  head,  a  threadbare  dress 
of  black  alpaca,  manifestly  her  Sunday  clothes. 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Sky-Blue  read  the  signal  in  her  devoted  eyes.  He 
reached  down.  Others  aiding,  he  had  her  on  the  plat 
form.  She  was  nervous,  a  little  frightened,  but  borne 
up  by  her  faith. 

She  said  something  that  was  inaudible  to  others  in 
the  din,  but  Sky-Blue  bent  his  ear  to  listen. 

He  straightened  up.     He  shouted: 

"God  bless  you,  sister !" 

There  was  a  slight  lull  in  the  music  and  shouting. 
Sky-Blue  bent  his  ear  again,  again  straightened  up 
and  howled: 

«Fer  all  she's  got!  That's  the  way  to  talk!  She's 
signin'  fer  all  she's  got !" 

He  listened  again,  again  proclaimed  the  tidings: 

"Eighty-three  dollars!" 

Davies  felt  a  glow  of  white  heat  in  his  breast  that 
was  almost  killing  him. 

"You  dirty  old  scum !"  his  mind  roared. 

But  what  could"  he  do?  Should  he  rise  in  his  place 
and  shout  from  his  throat  what  his  mind  was  dictating? 
This  and  all  the  rest?  That  here  was  a  hypocrite — 
here  was  a  fraud — here  was  a  robber  of  the  poor? 

But  old  Sky-Blue,  with  his  arm  about  the  humble 
little  sister  in  black,  was  singing  again.  He  was  laugh 
ing.  He  turned  and  gave  Davies  a  look  as  if  to  say: 
"I'll  showyuh!" 

The  Pollyanna  young  man  forced  his  way  up  to  the 
platform  and  delivered  a  verbal  message. 

And  old  Sky-Blue,  who  was  dancing  a  little  by  this 
time,  did  a  couple  of  more  jumps  and  shouted  at  the 
top  of  his  lungs  and  waved  his  arms  for  silence. 


ARMAGEDDON  295 

"No  money!"  he  howled.  "No  money!  Brother 
Hitchcock  here's  just  been  tellin*  me  how  some  of  you 
dear  ones  been  offerin*  him  dimes  and  quarters.  That's 
all  right  fer  you  dear  ones  that  ain't  got  a  bank 
account,  and  it's  all  right  fer  the  blessed  little  chil 
dren,  and  I'm  goin'  to  ask  Brother  Hitchcock  to 
register  these  sums  so's  no  tithe  ner  jitney  be  un 
recorded  in  the  Golden  Book.  But  let  those  of  us  who 
can,  put  down  our  names  and  our  pledges." 

Here  one  of  the  ushers  cried  out  from  the  back 
of  the  hall : 

"Judge  Berry9 s  down  fer  two  hundred!" 

There  was  an  outburst  of  handclapping ;  but  Sky- 
Blue  called  for  a  cheer,  and  the  auditorium  rocked. 

And  the  quartet,  which  had  begun  on  "Old  Black 
Joe,"  switched  to  "Dixie,"  and  this  also  kept  the  cheer 
ing  going  along  for  a  while — long  enough;  for  now 
others  were  trying  to  get  their  names  into  the  cheering- 
line. 

"Mrs.  Melva  MeUisli  down  fer  a  hundred!'9 

"Seventy-five  for  Brother  Cole!" 

"Ed  Brock,  eighty!" 

With  considerable  difficulty  old  Sky-Blue  succeeded  in 
getting  himself  heard  again,  although  he  had  to  shout 
at  first  to  do  it. 

"Don't  misunderstand,"  he  yelled.  "Don't  misunder 
stand!  If  you  can't  sign  the  pledges  give  what  you 
got !  Go  to  it,  boys  !" 

This  last  to  the  quartet. 

And  the  riot  broke  loose  again,  ushers  working  like 


296          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

sin,  sporadic  cheers  drowning  the  music,  this  brother 
and  that  brother  or  Sister  So-and-So,  who  hadn't 
spoken  to  each  other  for  years,  perhaps,  now  shaking 
hands  and  singing  in  unison  and  smiling  at  each  other 
through  their  tears. 

Davies's  agony  increased. 

Was  he  going  to  let  Sky-Blue  get  away  with  this — 
rob  the  whole  town  ? 

"Look  out !  Look  out !"  he  wanted  to  yell.  "Those 
are  checks  that  you're  signing.  Checks,  you  rubes! 
He's  going  to  cash  'em !  He's  told  me  so !  He's  a 
fake!" 

What  if  he  should  yell  this  ?  Would  they  believe  him  ? 
Would  Alvah  think  he  was  crazy. 

Sky-Blue  waltzed  over  and  stroked  his  shoulder. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  Davies  felt  his  blood 
stand  still  in  his  veins ;  felt  the  slow,  cringing  contrac 
tion  of  his  muscles  as  he  started  to  rise.  The  time  had 
come.  The  bell  of  fate  had  begun  to  ring.  He  couldn't 
stand  this.  If  he  did  he  would  be  as  bad  as  the  bishop. 
And  worse!  For  perhaps  the  bishop  didn't  know  any 
better. 

It  seemed  to  Davies  that  he  could  already  feel  the 
people  looking  at  him ;  feel  the  multitudinous  focus  of 
the  thousand  eyes,  although  as  yet  he  hadn't  moved  an 
inch. 

Then  he  was  suddenly  aware  that  it  wasn't  at  him 
self  the  people  looked,  but  at  Colonel  Evan  Williams. 

The  colonel  himself  had  risen,  was  waiting  to  make 
himself  heard. 


CHAPTER  XL VIII 


OLD  Sky-Blue  righted  himself  and  bawled : 

"Brother  Williams !  Let  us  listen  to  Brother  Wil 
liams  !" 

And  there  was  just  the  barest  suggestion — for  Davies 
there  was,  at  least — just  the  barest  suggestion  that  the 
bishop  was  nervous;  up  against  something  that  he 
wasn't  perfectly  sure  about. 

And  there  was  that  in  the  colonel's  appearance  to 
give  any  one  pause,  especially  if  that  person  happened 
to  have  a  troubled  conscience  or  any  reason  for  such. 
The  colonel  was  calm.  He  was  self-possessed.  And 
yet,  also,  he  was  somewhat  out  of  himself  and  above 
himself — filling  his  Mobile  coat  perfectly,  looking  as 
he  might  have  looked  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago,  ex 
cept  for  his  white  hair  and  mustache,  eye  sagacious, 
florid,  handsome. 

Alvah  was  gazing  at  him.  So  was  Davies.  So  grad 
ually  was  every  one  else  as  the  hall  went  silent. 

"My  friends,"  said  Colonel  Williams,  "I  feel  that 
I  cannot  let  this  occasion  pass  without  giving  my  tes 
timony." 

His  voice  was  soft,  yet  vibrant,  sonorous.  It  car 
ried. 

297 


298  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Old  Sky-Blue  had  subsided  into  the  chair  the  colonel 
had  vacated,  he  having  seated  the  little  old  woman  in 
black  in  his  own  armchair — which  was  too  big  for  her; 
and  Sky-Blue  sat  there  with  a  happy  smile  on  his  face, 
wondering  what  was  coming  off,  and  now  and  then  pat 
ting  Alvah's  hand  to  show  every  one  how  happy  he  was 
and  how  his  heart  was  overflowing  with  love. 

"Testimony  in  the  old  religious  sense,"  the  colonel 
said.  "Testimony  as  we  used  it  in  the  revivals  of  our 
Old  South !  This,  although  the  evidence  is  in,  although 
the  judgment  be  already  recorded  by  the  Judge  on 
High !  We've  all  been  witnesses.  We've  witnessed  once 
more  the  ancient  miracle  of  Grace." 

Sky-Blue  was  still  a  trifle  up  in  the  air,  as  the  saying 
is ;  but  he  was  game.  He  clapped  his  hands  and  said : 
"Amen!"  And  this  started  a  flutter  of  applause. 

The  colonel  turned  and  took  a  leisurely  look  at  Sky- 
Blue. 

"What's  comin'  off?"  Davies  demanded  of  his  soul. 
The  colonel  said : 
"Thanks  to  you,  sir !" 

He  turned  once  more  to  face  the  audience,  his  voice 
thrilled: 

"Thanks  to  him !  Thanks  to  the  rare  spirit  and  bold 
of  him  to  whom  we  have  listened  with  such  reverence 
in  this  hall,  our  friend,  our  benefactor,  our  saintly 
leader,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Culbertson !" 

The  applause  started  up  again.  It  did  this  almost 
where  it  had  left  off,  with  much  handclapping  and  some 
cries  of  "Amen"  and  "True !  True !"  But  it  gave  a 
sudden  jump  and  was  twice  as  loud,  twice  as  vociferous 


"THIS  IS  MY  FRIEND"  299 

— cries  of  "Good  for  the  colonel!"  "Hallelujah!" 
"  'Ray  for  Dr.  Culbertson !"  Then  it  gave  yet  another 
jump  and  became  a  baby  ovation. 

"He's  makin'  it  worse,"  said  Davies  to  himself,  and 
it  was  just  as  if  a  fist  was  pounding  at  his  chest. 

Sky-Blue  was  satisfied  now.  He  waved  an  arm  as  a 
signal  for  the  crowd  to  let  the  colonel  continue.  The 
colonel  was  watching  the  crowd,  however,  with  all  the 
ready  strategy  of  the  trained  orator.  He  waited  until 
the  silence  was  practically  complete,  then  intense,  abso 
lute.  He  adapted  his  voice  to  the  silence,  spoke  softly : 

"Gratitude  is  greatest  when  it  is  personal.  Out  of 
the  full  heart  I  speak.  You  are  my  neighbors.  You 
have  been  patient.  You  have  seen  me  fall.  You  have 
seen  the  forces  of  destruction  cloud  my  sky  like  hungry 
eagles.  But  where  are  the  eagles  now  ?  Gone !  Gone  1 
Thank  God  the  sky  is  clear  again." 

"God  bless  you,  brother,"  droned  the  bishop. 

And  there  were  a  few  other  cries,  slightly  hysterical : 
"Hallelu j  ah !"  "Praise  the  Lord !" 

"Cut  it  out,"  Davies  implored  in  his  heart.  "You 
don't  know  what  you're  doing." 

But  the  colonel  had  all  the  appearance  of  one  who 
does  know  what  he  is  about. 

He  roared  the  next  few  words : 

"Am  I  alone?" 

Cries  of  "No !    No !"  and  some  laughter. 

"Am  I  alone?"  the  colonel  demanded  again.  "In  the 
regeneration  of  my  unworthy  self  we  have  seen  but  the 
passing  shadow  of  the  greater  fact,  the  regeneration  of 
our  city.  St.  Clair !  As  he  himself  so  eloquently  has 


800          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

put  it,  thou  art  already  a  well-spring  in  the  desert,  St. 
Clair !  Beautiful  thou  wert !  Yea,  more  beautiful  than 
any  other  city  in  the  State  of  equal  population !" 

More  applause. 

"Think  then  what  it  will  be  when  this  dream  of  our 
doctor  is  realized,  home  of  an  institution  unique  in  the 
annals  of  the  world,  the  visible  promise  of  that  city  of 
the  new  Jerusalem — prepared  as  a  bride  adorned  for 
her  husband — her  light  like  unto  a  stone  most  precious 
— and  filled  with  the  glory  and  the  honor  of  the  na 
tions." 

All  the  time  that  the  colonel  was  speaking  the  ushers 
were  on  the  job  of  getting  fresh  subscriptions.  Even 
in  those  moments  of  tense  silence  their  eyes  were  alert. 
At  each  outburst  of  applause  they  were  seizing  the  occa 
sion  to  convert  the  enthusiasm  into  something  tangible. 

Davies's  distress  grew. 

By  degrees  the  congregation  was  fusing  into  an  even 
greater  degree  of  fervor  than  it  had  shown  when  old 
Sky-Blue  himself  was  holding  forth.  It  was  coming 
along  toward  ecstasy  as  the  colonel  swung  into  his  per 
oration,  a  personal  tribute  to  Culbertson,  but  couched 
in  the  language  of  the  Wise  One : 

"'His  mouth  is  most  sweet:  Yea,  he  is  altogether 
lovely.  This  is  my  beloved,  and  this  is  my  friend,  O 
daughters  of  Jerusalem  !'  " 

And  then,  in  the  midst  of  the  cheering  and  hand- 
clapping  and  incipient  song,  old  Sky-Blue  jumped  for 
ward  with  streaming  eyes  and  clasped  the  colonel  in  his 
arms  and  called  for  a  song.  But  while  he  was  doing  all 
this  he  still  had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  shout : 


"THIS  IS  MY  FRIEND"  301 

"Sign  your  pledges,  friends  !  Er  give  what  you  can ! 
Let  us  make  this  day  a  day  of  glory !" 

The  quartet  had  taken  its  cue  from  the  colonel's 
speech,  was  shooting  out  the  chorus  of  that  other  re 
vival  song: 

"Oh,  I'll  meet  you  in  the  city  of  the  new  Jerooz-olum  !" 

It  became  a  roar  as  the  congregation  joined  in.  The 
ushers  were  now  working  like  mad,  taking  money  and 
checks.  An  old  farmer  had  clambered  to  the  platform. 
He  and  Sky-Blue  had  to  howl  at  each  other  to  make 
themselves  heard. 

"/  want  to  go  down  for  fifty  dollars!" 

"Did  you  say  eighty?" 

"But  I  ain't  got  a  pen" 

"Use  mine." 

And  Davies  saw  the  bishop  thrust  his  fountain  pen 
smoothly  into  the  old  man's  hand.  Davies  was  in  a  riot 
of  emotion.  He  didn't  know  what  to  do.  The  colonel's 
speech  had  made  matters  worse,  a  hundred  times  worse. 
What  sort  of  a  chance  did  he  have  to  denounce  the 
bishop  now  ?  Would  it  all  wind  up  by  his  being  forced 
to  murder  the  bishop?  Would  such  a  murder  be  justi 
fied? 

Alvah  looked  at  him.     She  was  radiant. 

It  couldn't  have  been  Alvah's  thought,  therefore, 
that  came  to  him — came  to  him  like  a  flash  of  inspira 
tion,  of  that  rarer  thing  called  illumination ;  but  it  was 
something  which  came  to  him  from  the  girl's  purity  and 
innocence  none  the  less;  that  perception,  once  vague, 
now  clear,  that  old  Sky-Blue  was  evil,  was  Satan. 


302  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

Should  he  falter  in  the  presence  of  this  Prince  of 
Darkness — lie  down  before  him — when  he  alone  of  all 
the  others  there  was  armed  to  destroy  him  utterly? 

Once  more  he  trembled  to  the  rise. 

But  now,  as  that  other  time,  Colonel  Evan  Williams 
intervened.  The  colonel  had  called  for  order,  com 
manded  silence. 

"I  wish  to  put  a  motion,"  the  colonel  shouted. 

Culbertson  was  supporting  him — doing  this  right 
heartily  now  that  he  was  certain  of  the  colonel's  mo 
tives. 

Davies  didn't  get  all  that  followed.  All  that  he 
could  see,  all  that  he  could  think  about  was  that  the 
town  was  stripping  itself,  signing  pledges,  each  pledge 
a  personal  check  to  Culbertson,  otherwise  Sky-Blue,  to 
say  nothing  of  all  the  actual  cash  that  was  rolling  in. 

He  barely  heard  what  the  colonel  was  saying  about 
Dr.  Culbertson  being  advanced  in  years ;  that  he  should 
therefore  be  relieved  of  wearisome  detail. 

Then  he  got  it:  his  own  name. 

The  colonel  had  spoken  about  that  other  and  younger 
friend  of  his  whom  the  whole  town  was  glad  to  honor. 

"Mr.  Richard  Dawes!" 

And  there  was  plenty  of  applause  at  that  as  well. 

And  then  the  colonel  was  calling  upon  them  to  elect 
him  by  acclamation — elect  him  by  a  rising  vote — which 
the  congregation  did,  surging  up  to  its  feet  before  the 
question  was  fairly  put;  elect  Mr.  Richard  Davies,  se 
cretary  and  treasurer,  and  custodian  of  all  the  funds, 
of  the  Beating  Heart  Seminary. 


"THIS  IS  MY  FRIEND"  303 

Davies  heard  all  this  a  good  deal  as  if  he  were  in  a 
trance.  He  was  in  a  trance.  He  was  until  old  Sky- 
Blue  himself  was  falling  upon  him,  calling  him  by  name : 

"Oh,  my  beloved  Richard !" 


CHAPTER  XLIX 

FACE    TO    FACE 

"LET  the  old  man  rave !"  he  communed  with  himself. 
"I've  got  him !  I've  got  him !" 

Sky-Blue  whispered : 

"Pretty  slick!    You  put  it  over  great!" 

But  it  was  as  if  another  whisper  came  to  Davies : 

"You  prayed  in  your  "heart.  Your  prayer  is  amr 
swered.  You  called  for  "help.  You've  got  it.9* 

All  this,  while  Sky-Blue  was  still  cavorting  about  him 
— patting  him  on  the  shoulder,  shouting  out  his  joy  and 
his  felicitations.  Verily,  verily,  was  virtue  its  own  re 
ward. 

"Begin  it  now,"  said  Richard. 

"What?"  Sky-Blue  asked. 

"Pass  it  over — the  check  the  old  farmer  gave  you." 

"Yea!  Yea !"  shouted  the  bishop.  "All  pledges  and 
moneys  to  Brother  Davies !"  And  he  passed  over  the 
paper  Davies  had  mentioned. 

The  ushers  crowded  in. 

Davies  bade  a  swift  good  night  to  Alvah.  She  glowed 
at  him  with  love  and  admiration — a  look  that  he  was 
never  to  forget.  He  squeezed  Colonel  William's  hand. 
Their  eyes  met.  Did  the  colonel  suspect  what  had  come 
to  pass?  Had  he  foreseen  it,  engineered  it? 

304 


FACE  TO  FACE  305 

But  the  crowd  was  flowing  strong  by  this  time — 
others  crowding  up  to  congratulate  him,  to  pass  over 
their  checks  and  money.  He  disposed  of  the  water- 
jug  and  the  glass.  The  wealth  piled  up  and  covered 
the  table-top— St.  Clair's  donation  to  the  Beating 
Heart. 

It  was  a  long,  long  time  before  the  hall  was  emptied. 
It  wouldn't  have  been  emptied  at  all,  perhaps — not  be 
fore  morning — if  old  Sky-Blue  hadn't  taken  to  shooing 
his  well-wishers  out  into  the  night.  He  had  to  shepherd 
them  out,  establishing  himself  down  near  the  door,  where 
he  could  bless  them  and  get  rid  of  them  at  the  same  time. 

Sky-Blue  was  moist  and  tremulous.  Any  one  could 
have  told  that  this  was  indeed — just  as  he  said  it  was — 
the  most  beautiful  day  of  his  life. 

Pie  called  a  good  many  of  the  sisters  by  their  first 
names.  He  kissed  a  good  many  of  the  girl  children — 
did  this  fondly  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes — especially 
when  the  ages  of  these  shaded  up  around  eighteen. 

"Is  this  little  Effie?" 

And  little  Effie  blushing,  forsooth,  with  all  the 
warmth  of  her  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  of  corn-fed, 
buxom  health. 

"God  bless  you,  sister.     Did  you  get  a  receipt?" 

Davies  was  grateful  for  the  delay.  He  had  his  work 
cut  out  for  him,  and  he  didn't  want  to  be  interfered 
with  for  a  while. 

In  spite  of  the  bishop's  expressed  preference  for 
checks  instead  of  cash — thus  insuring  a  vastly  greater 
donation  doubtless  than  could  have  been  yielded  by  any 
ordinary  collection — still  there  was  cash  galore — 


306  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

pounds  and  pounds  of  it,  chiefly  in  pennies  and  nickels 
and  dimes ;  yet  with  a  fair  weight,  also,  of  fifty-cent 
pieces  and  silver  dollars.  All  this  had  to  be  counted. 

An  awful  job! 

Not  only  counted,  but  made  to  balance  with  the  pen 
ciled  memoranda  turned  in  by  the  various  ushers. 

But  he  was  something  of  the  natural  cashier.  He 
went  about  the  task  with  something  of  the  neatness 
that  characterized  his  dress,  the  speed  that  was  such  an 
asset  in  a  fight.  And  this  was  a  fight.  He  separated 
the  coins  and  stacked  them.  This  was  a  poker-game, 
and  he  was  stacking  his  chips.  He  arranged  the  paper 
and  the  checks,  folding  each  one  of  them  lengthwise  and 
getting  them  perfectly  even,  as  he  had  seen  the  big 
bookmakers  in  times  past  prepare  their  rolls  at  the 
track. 

The  amount  ran  into  the  thousands — those  pledges  as 
good  as  cash,  each  pledge  a  personal  check  to  Sky-Blue 
— Balaam  N.  Culbertson — payable  by  the  local  bank. 

He  had  plenty  of  time. 

He  knew  that  he  was  going  to  have  plenty  of  time. 
He  worked  with  the  knowledge  that  he  had  something 
or  some  one  now  on  his  side.  He  had  no  nerves ;  he  was 
cool,  perfectly  confident. 

He  stowed  the  stuff  away  with  method  and  care — 
bills  in  this  pocket,  checks  in  this.  He  had  a  large, 
clean,  linen  handkerchief.  He  put  the  coin  into  this 
and  knotted  it  up,  then  hid  it  where  he  could  have  it 
safe  and  not  be  embarrassed  by  its  weight.  For,  while 
he  was  confident,  there  was  no  telling  what  might  hap 
pen. 


FACE  TO  FACE  307 

So  the  town  had  elected  him  secretary  and  treasurer 
and  custodian  of  funds !  Had  elected  him  by  acclama 
tion  !  This  when  he  had  believed  the  whole  world  to  be 
against  him ! 

He  looked  up  finally  to  see  the  bishop  in  the  act  of 
shooing  the  last  of  his  beloved  out  of  the  door.  At 
last  no  one  remained  but  the  janitor.  The  janitor  also 
Sky-Blue  embraced.  He  had  the  man  turn  out  all  the 
lights  except  that  of  the  reading-lamp  on  the  platform. 
Then  Sky-Blue  dismissed  this  brother  with  a  blessing, 
told  him  that  he  and  Richard  would  tarry  for  a  while, 
and  would  see  that  everything  was  closed  up  properly 
when  they  left. 

So  Sky-Blue  eventually  saw  the  janitor  through  the 
door  also,  and  locked  the  door  behind  him. 

Then  Sky-Blue  came  striding  up  the  aisle,  delighted 
but  very  important,  rubbing  his  hands  and  inclined  to 
lord  it  over  Davies  in  a  friendly  sort  of  way. 

"We've  done  it!"  he  exclaimed.  "We've  done  it! 
Damn  my  white  hairs  if  we  ain't  done  it  this  time! 
Done  it  right !  Did  you  get  the  applause !  Oh,  Chick ! 
Let  this  learn  you !  Old  Sky-Blue  ain't  such  a  has-been 
as  you  thought  he  was!  Is  he?  What  are  the  fig- 
gers?" 

Davies  told  him. 

Sky-Blue  rolled  his  eyes  heavenward,  brought  his 
fingers  into  contact  over  his  stomach  and  twirled  his 
thumbs.  But  he  didn't  hold  the  tableau  long.  Sud 
denly  he  was  all  nervousness  and  greed. 

"Fork  it  over,"  he  said.  "Fork  it  over,  so's  I  can 
fondle  it." 


308          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

He  noticed  the  expression  in  Davies's  face — saw 
something  there  that  he  didn't  comprehend,  didn't  quite 
like. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Richard  dryly.     "Nothing— yet !" 

"Oh,  now,  look  here,"  the  bishop  ejaculated.  "Don't 
go  and  spoil  an  occasion  like  this  by  a  case  of  sulks. 
Don't,  Chicky,  I  beg  of  you.  Why,  I'm  as  proud  of 
you  as  I  can  be.  You  did  your  part  noble — if  you  do 
know  it  yourself,"  he  teased.  "Seriously,  my  boy,  your 
work  to-night's  confirmed  everything  I've  ever  thought 
of  you,  planned  fer  you.  It  was  a  surprise  to  old  Sky- 
Blue  himself.  It  was.  I  confess  that,  there  for  a 
moment,  I  was  gettin'  a  little  leary.  It  was  too 
good.  It  was  comin'  too  easy.  I've  seen  it  happen 
before.  It's  just  at  such  times  as  this  that  some 
body  begins  to  suspect — spills  the  beans — some  rube 
lawyer,  some  jay  banker  er  country  cop." 

"That's  right,"  said  Dick  dryly,  with  his  eyes  on 
the  old  man. 

The  bishop  was  convulsed  with  reminiscent  laughter. 

"And  you  had  me  guessin'.  You  did.  When  the 
old  colonel  got  up  and  began  his  spiel  I  could  'a' 
beaned  him.  'Drat  his  old  soul,'  I  says;  'may  he 
drop  down  dead,'  I  says.  And  here  he  was  leadin'  right 
up  to  the  gran'-stan'  play  'at  pulled  the  wool  over  all 
of  their  eyes."  He  put  these  pleasantries  behind  him. 
"Well,"  he  said,  "now  fer  the  big  split.  Le's  begin 
with  the  cash.  Where  is  it?  Where'd  you  put  it?" 

He  had  begun  to  rub  his  hands  again.  He  was  in  a 
tremor  of  eagerness  and  greed. 


FACE  TO  FACE  309 

"I  got  it,"  said  Dick. 

"I  know  you  got  it.     Hurry  up.     Come  across." 

Davies  eyed  the  bishop.  Davies  had  gone  a  little 
white,  but  he  was  very  cool,  steady.  He  measured 
his  words. 

"I'm  not  going  to  come  across,"  he  announced. 
"You're  not  in  on  this.  You  don't  get  a  bean." 


CHAPTER  L 

SKIN    FOR    SKIN 

"I  DON'T  quite  get  you,"  said  the  bishop.  "I  appear 
to  be  a  little  deef.  Say  that  again." 

"You  heard  me." 

"Methinks  you  was  crackin'  a  joke." 

His  words  were  jocular;  not  so  the  tone  of  his  voice. 

"I  was  cracking  no  joke,"  said  Richard.  "I  meant 
what  I  said,  and  I'll  tell  you  again:  you  don't  get  a 
cent  of  this  money.  It  isn't  yours.  It  belongs  to  the 
people  who  shelled  it  out.  They've  entrusted  it  to 
my  care.  And  I'm  going  to  care  for  it.  Is  that 
clear?" 

"So  that's  your  game !" 

"There  is  no  game  about  it." 

"Can  it!"  barked  the  bishop. 

"I  was  as  much  surprised  as  any  one  when  the 
colonel  sprang  that  nomination." 

"Fork  out  that  chink." 

"And  maybe  the  colonel  isn't  such  a  fool  as  you 
seem  to  take  him  to  be.  He  was  a  fine  lawyer  in  his 
day." 

The  bishop  was  occupied  in  drawing  up  a  chair.  He 
was  doing  this  with  nervous  haste. 

"Damn  the  colonel,"  he  muttered  over  his  shoulder. 

310 


'But  Cliicky,"  said  the  old  man,  "I  wasn't  tryin'   tr>  horns-waggle  you. 
along  we   were  splitting  fifty   fifty?" 


Hain't  I  said  al 


SKIN  FOR  SKIN  311 

But  when  he  had  fully  turned  and  was  seated,  and 
his  eyes  met  Davies's  eyes,  all  those  preliminary  mis 
givings  and  hatreds  aroused  by  what  he  had  originally 
seen  in  Davies's  face  must  have  returned  to  him  quad 
rupled.  It  steadied  him — like  the  old  war-horse  that 
he  was  on  the  eve  of  battle.  He  took  a  chew  of 
tobacco. 

"Maybe  the  colonel  had  the  situation  sized  up  bet 
ter  than  you  think,"  said  Davies,  speaking  steadily. 
"YouVe  talked  all  along  about  me  having  so  much 
to  learn.  Maybe  I'm  not  the  only  one.  Maybe  you've 
got  something  to  learn  yourself." 

The  bishop  forked  his  beard  and  looked  around  for 
a  receptacle.  Not  discovering  any,  he  arose  and 
stalked  very  solemnly  over  to  a  back  window  which 
was  open — all  this  merely  to  give  him  time  to  think. 
But  Davies  watched  him  narrowly.  He  saw  the  old 
man  let  his  hand  rest  for  a  moment  on  an  iron  weight 
that  was  there  to  hold  one  of  the  inside  shutters  in 
place.  He  saw  the  bishop's  furtive  glance.  The 
bishop  came  back  unarmed. 

"I'm  talking  straight,"  Davies  announced  somberly. 

The  bishop  thought  he  saw  a  lead. 

"But  Chicky,"  he  said;  "I  wasn't  tryin'  to  horn- 
swaggle  you.  So  help  me  God!  Hain't  I  said  all 
along  we  were  splittin'  fifty-fifty  ?" 

"Yes!" 

"Well,  then,  what  you  stallin'  for?  Come  across! 
Give  me  a  feel." 

"You  don't  get  a  feel,"  said  Davies;  "nor  a 
smell!" 


312          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

The  bishop's  face  underwent  a  terrible  change.  It 
was  just  as  if  he  had  been  griped  by  the  first  spasm 
of  some  frightful  pain — something  that  killed  the  good 
in  him  and  showed  him  up  black  and  horrible. 

He  emitted  a  blasphemous  epithet,  smooth  but 
barbed. 

Then  he  got  his  reason  back. 

"Still  foolin',"  he  gurgled. 

"Yes,"  said  Davies;  "I  am  not!" 

"Sort  of  tryin'meout!" 

"I've  tried  you  out,"  said  Davies.  "This  is  where 
you  get  off.  You're  canned.  You're  leaving  town." 

The  old  man's  distress  was  such,  there  for  a  while, 
that  Davies  expected  to  see  him  collapse  utterly.  He 
did  collapse  to  some  extent — exactly  like  a  prize 
fighter  who  has  received  a  jolt  on  the  solar-plexus. 
His  face  went  ashen.  He  looked  a  little  cross-eyed. 
His  condition  was  such  that  Davies  felt  sorry  for  him. 

"You  oughtn't  to  take  it  so  hard,"  he  said.  "You're 
getting  old,  bishop.  Why  don't  you  straighten  up  be 
fore  you  die?  You  don't  want  to  go  to  hell.  No 
man  does.  Just  see  what  a  good  impression  you've 
made  on  the  people  of  this  town!  Isn't  that  worth 
something?  Don't  you  value  their  esteem?" 

The  bishop  tried  to  speak,  but  he  was  still  para 
lyzed. 

"Why,"  Davies  continued,  "there's  nothing  in  the 
world  equal  to  a  good  reputation — to  having  a  lot  of 
friends — to  having  folks  look  up  to  you,  honor  you, 
love  you.  When  I  said  that  you  had  a  lot  to  learn 
I  didn't  mean  anything  bad.  You've  got  brains. 


SKIN  FOR  SKIN  318 

You're  one  of  the  brainiest  men  I  ever  stacked  up 
against.  Honest !  And  you  have  a  heart,  too.  You're 
not  one  of  these  ordinary  crooks  like  they  pinch  or 
send  to  the  chair.  I  bet  you  never  killed  any  one  in 
your  life,  unless  you  had  to.  I  thought  a  lot  of  you 
the  very  first  night  I  ever  saw  you." 

The  bishop  partly  recovered.  He  put  a  feeble 
hand  into  the  breast-pocket  of  his  frock-coat  and 
brought  out  two  badly  worn  documents  of  legal  aspect. 

"I  done  this  for  you,"  he  murmured. 

It  was  always  a  sign  that  his  emotion  was  genuine 
when  he  slipped  up  on  his  English. 

Davies  took  the  documents  and  examined  them,  but 
he  wasn't  sufficiently  used  to  such  things  to  make 
out  the  nature  of  them  right  away.  Sky-Blue,  per 
ceiving  this,  enlightened  him: 

"Mortgages !" 

"What  on?" 

"The   colonel's   property." 

"Where  did  you  get  them?" 

"Tine." 

"Frank  Tine!" 

"Blackmailed  him,"  said  the  bishop  weakly. 

"You  scared  him  so  he's  jumped  the  town,"  said 
Davies. 

.  "Made  him  surrender  the  mortgages  to  me — was 
going  to  hand  'em  over  to  the  colonel  as  canceled." 

Davies  had  a  moment  of  indecision,  and  Sky-Blue 
profited  by  this  to  recover  the  documents.  He  was 
beginning  to  be  himself  again.  The  blood  was  re 
turning  to  his  face  and,  doubtless,  to  his  brain. 


314*  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"But  I  won't,"  he  said,  "if  you  don't  play  square. 
I'll  make  the  colonel  and  that  niece  of  his  wish  to 
God  Frank  Tine  still  had  these  mortgages.  That's 
what  I'll  do.  I  ain't  going  to  let  him  and  you  double- 
cross  me  like  an  old  sucker.  You  can  bet  your  sweet, 
young  life  I  ain't." 

"The  colonel  hasn't  got  anything  to  do  with  this," 
said  Davies. 

"Bah!" 

"He  thinks  as  much  of  you  as  he  does  of  me." 

"He'll  think  a  damn  sight  less  of  you  when  I  get 
through  with  you.  Are  you  still  nursin'  the  idea  you 
can  hog  this  money  for  yourself?" 

"I  wasn't  aiming  to  hog  it  for  myself." 

"What  then?" 

"I'm  going  to  give  it  back." 

"What?" 

"Just  what  I  said.  I'm  going  to  turn  back  both 
the  cash  and  the  checks — as  far  as  possible — to  the 
people  who  gave  them." 

"Oh,  you  are!" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  you  just  keep  your  mouth  shut  and  your  ears 
open  for  a  minute  while  I  tell  you  somethin'.  You 
try  it.  You  just  try  it !  I've  been  mighty  patient  witli 
you.  I've  stood  an  awful  lot  of  your  sass  and  your 
brass.  You  thought  you  was  cute,  didn't  you?  Didn't 
know  you  was  makin'  a  monkey  of  yourself?  Shut  up ! 
I'm  talkin'." 


CHAPTER  LI 

TOOTH    AND    CLAW 

DAVJES  made  a  move  to  rise,  but  Sky-Blue  delivered 
himself  of  such  a  murderous  supplication  that  Davies 
kept  his  place.  There  was  momentary  silence,  deep, 
broken  only  by  the  slow  drip  of  water  from  the  trees 
and  the  chirr  of  crickets. 

"I'll  give  you  another  chance,"  said  the  bishop.  His 
voice  was  terrible — throaty,  not  very  loud,  yet  taking 
a  lot  of  breath,  like  the  purring  hiss  of  a  puff-adder 
or  an  alligator.  "I'll  give  you  another  chance.  But 
this  will  be  an  end  of  the  foolin',  you  rat.  What  are 
you  grinnin'  about?  I'll  make  you  grin.  You'll  grin 
out  of  the  other  side  of  your  face  when  I  throw  you 
in.  Once  more,  come  across !" 

Davies  never  moved.  He  merely  looked  with  all  his 
eyes.  But  he  was  alert,  watchful,  just  about  ready 
to  go. 

"You  won't?" 

"No." 

"You  won't,  won't  you?  You'll' look  slick  in  your 
college  clothes — doin'  the  lock-step.  It'll  be  the 
wolves  fer  you.  I'll  frame  you — hidin'  here  in  the 
country.  The  New  York  bulls  won't  do  a  thing  to  you 
when  they  get  their  hooks  on  you.  I'll  hang  enough 

315 


616          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

crimes  on  you  to  send  you  away  for  life.  Damn  you, 
111  send  you  to  the  chair  fer  killin'  a  cop." 

Davies  must  have  known  that  these  were  not  idle 
threats.  In  the  world  he  came  from  many  a  man — 
many  a  boy — was  believed  to  have  disappeared  beyond 
the  doors  of  Elmira,  Auburn,  Sing  Sing,  on  a  trumped- 
up  charge,  "railroaded,"  convicted  of  another  man's 
crime,  the  victim  of  perjured  testimony  and  a  private 
vengeance.  And  if  any  one  could  work  such  a  vengeance 
Sky-Blue  could,  with  his  cunning,  his  place  of  power 
in  the  underworld. 

But,  curiously,  Davies  felt  no  fear — felt  only  a  keen 
excitement,  a  species  of  elation.  It  was  as  if  he  were 
conscious  of  that  power  that  had  already  come  to  his 
aid — conscious  that  the  power  was  still  there  ready 
to  back  him  up  again. 

He  did  smile.  It  was  a  smile  that  was  chiefly  located 
though  in  his  glowing  eyes. 

"You  throw  me  to  the  wolves?"  he  said.  "Maybe 
you  will!  But  if  you  do  you'll  go  with  me,  and  it'll 
be  with  a  fang  in  every  string  of  your  meat.  Now  you 
shut  up.  You've  had  your  say.  Why,  you  dirty  old 
man !  Taking  money  from  poor  old  women  dressed  in 
black!  Spewing  your  guff  about  love  and  religion! 
I  could  take  these  two  hands  and  jerk  your  whiskers 
out!  Tear  you  to  pieces  like  a  rotten  rag!  And  you 
got  the  nerve  to  sit  there  and  talk  about  railroading 
me?  I'm  only  sparing  you  because  you're  old,  and 
because  you're  licked,  and  because  you're  up  against 
something  that  even  now  you  can't  understand." 


TOOTH  AND  CLAW  317 

Sky-Blue  had  a  movement — not  very  much  of  a 
movement,  but  desperate — to  regain  the  ascendency. 

It  was  hopeless. 

Davies  arose  from  his  chair  like  one  moved  by  a 
force  not  his  own.  He  stood  over  Sky-Blue  and  looked 
down  at  him.  And  the  bishop  looked  up  at  Davies. 
The  bishop's  mouth  was  open.  He  appeared  not  to 
breathe. 

"You're  canned,"  said  Davies.  "You're  going  out 
of  town.  I  told  you  once.  I  tell  you  again.  I'm  let 
ting  you  go.  You  ought  to  go  on  a  rail,  in  your  skin, 
and  your  skin  dolled  up  with  tar  and  feathers.  That's 
what  would  happen  to  you  if  I  put  the  town  wise. 
Culbertson!  Balaam  N.  Culbertson!  Founder  of  the 
Beating  Heart!  How  old  are  you?" 

"Seventy!" 

"God  pity  you!" 

"Chick !"     It  was  a  whisper. 

"No  more  'Chick !'  "  said  Davies  without  passion. 
"Chick's  dead.  Remember  that  when  you  get  back  to 
New  York.  You  won't  hurt  me.  You  can't.  No  man 
can.  I've  got  a  hold  of  something  I  can  cling  to. 
Influence!  I've  got  a  friend." 

There  was  a  quality  about  him  while  he  stood  there 
and  while  he  was  saying  this  that  seemed  to  be  taking 
all  the  strength  and  hostility  right  out  of  Sky-Blue — 
bleeding  him,  leaving  him  increasingly  weak  and  helpless. 
He  was  still  rigid — the  bishop  was — but  he  was  im 
potent.  Still,  he  attempted  another  threat: 

"You'll— be  sorry!" 

But  it  sounded  childish.     It  was  futile. 


318          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"There  are  three  trains  going  out  of  St.  Clair  to 
morrow,"  said  Davies,  transferring  his  thought  to  the 
subject  with  a  mental  effort.  "The  first  is  that  milk- 
train  that  leaves  at  four-ten.  You  don't  want  to  take 
'that.  You're  tired.  You  want  a  little  sleep — a  little 
time  to  think  things  over.  There's  that  other  slow 
one — the  local — to-morrow  afternoon.  I  don't  think 
you'd  better  wait  for  that.  I'm  going  to  get  busy 
on  this  new  job  of  mine  to-morrow.  Things  might 
happen.  I  guess  you'd  better  take  the  mail-train  in 
the  morning,  eight-forty-five.  Is  it  understood  ?" 

"I'll— take  it." 

"And  you  think  I'll  still  be  sorry?" 

Sky-Blue  merely  wagged  his  head. 

"Sorry !"  Davies  breathed.  "Let  me  tell  you  some 
thing.  I'm  going  home  to-night  for  the  first  good 
sleep  I've  had  since  you  showed  up — going  home  with 
out  a  load  on  my  heart — going  to  hit  the  hay  in  peace. 
You  needn't  stick  around  to  say  good-by.  I'll  be  get 
ting  up  a  little -late.  You'll  be  gone  when  I  wake  up. 
Go  on  and  beat  it!  You  need  the  rest." 

He  kept  his  eye  on  Sky-Blue  as  Sky-Blue  got  to  his 
feet.  For  a  moment  or  so  the  bishop  stood  there  as  if 
he  expected  to  say  something.  He  finally  turned,  how 
ever,  and  made  his  way,  Davies  still  watching  him, 
down  the  aisle,  through  the  door,  out  into  the  night. 

Davies,  taking  his  time  about  it,  recovered  his  im 
provised  bag  of  coin  from  where  he  had  hidden  it.  He 
turned  out  the  light  of  the  reading-lamp.  He  also 
started  to  leave. 

But  midway  through   the  darkened   auditorium  he 


TOOTH  AND  CLAW  319 

stopped — stopped  short,  lifted  his  face,  looked  as  a  man 
looks  who  suddenly  finds  himself  in  the  presence  of 
something  great  and  unfamiliar. 

So  it  was  with  him. 

This  flimsy  hall  had  become  a  temple.  The  outer 
doors  were  open,  and  through  the  broad  casement  of 
them  the  night  came  in,  soft,  and  mysterious,  and 
holy.  The  place  had  become  like  a  temple  of  Egypt, 
and  what  had  just  happened  there  become  a  rite — one 
of  those  rites  of  magic  and  wonder  which  have  marked 
the  recurrent  dawns  of  the  world  after  periods  of  dark 
ness. 

After  that,  Davies  walked  more  slowly. 

He  came  down  to  the  sill  of  his  temple,  and  he  stood 
there  as  a  priest  might  have  done.  There  was  an 
elation  and  a  gratitude  about  him  that  made  him 
shine,  and  which  was  neither  of  his  body  nor  his  mind, 
but  of  his  spirit,  flooding  outward  from  the  center  of  his 
being  and  transmuting  him  into  a  perfect  harmony  with 
the  night  and  all  the  elements  thereof — the  damp,  the 
perfume,  the  purple  depths,  the  tender  brilliance  of  the 
newly  shining  stars. 

That  was  right. 

There  was  nothing  that  could  hurt  him  now. 

He  betook  himself  along  the  paths  to  the  Flowery 
Harbor — looking  up,  as  Alvah  had  told  him  to  do.  But 
the  way  seemed  neither  long  nor  dark  nor  lonely. 

Only  he  did  recognize  that  something  had  been  lack 
ing — some  complete  fulfilment — when  he  came  within 
sight  of  his  destination  and  saw  that  some  one  had 


320          IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

put  a  light  in  the  window.    Alvah !    And  he  knew  that 
she  had  been  waiting  up  for  him. 

He  quickened  his  steps. 

He  saw  her  pale  form  hovering  at  the  gate. 


CHAPTER  LII 

THE    RETURN    OF    THE    SHADE 

SHE  said  something  about  having  been  worried  about 
him.  But  she  was  still  under  the  influence  of  the  excite 
ment  and  the  enthusiasm  she  had  brought  back  with 
her  from  the  meeting.  But  all  her  emotion  was  for 
him.  She  thought  it  was  wonderful.  She  thought  that 
everything  was  wonderful — and  Davies  was  inclined  to 
agree  with  her. 

"Where's  Dr.  Culbertson?"  she  asked. 

"I  thought  he  had  come  home,"  said  Davies. 

"No." 

"Then  he's  just  walking  around,"  said  Davies. 
"Thinking !  All  men  have  moments  when  they  feel  like 
thinking." 

This  answer  seemed  to  satisfy  Alvah.  Anyway,  it 
was  apparent  that  her  thought  could  not  easily  re 
main  away  for  any  length  of  time  from  Davies  and  all 
that  concerned  him. 

"Are  you  sleepy?"  he  asked. 

"I  feel  as  if  I  could  never  sleep  again." 

"I'm  not  sleepy  either,"  he  said.  "Come  on  around 
to  the  pump.  I  want  to  wash  the  feel  of  all  this 
money  from  my  hands.  I'll  let  you  pump  for  me." 

"What  a  lot  of  it !"  she  exclaimed,  as  she  took  his 

321 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"He  was  meditating — meditating  on  the  wonderful 
things  that  happened  to-night." 

"Right  again." 

"And  praying — praying  for  the  whole  world  to  be 
good  and  kind." 

Davies  swung  her  lightly  backward  in  his  arms.  He 
looked  down  into  her  face — looked  a  long,  long  time. 
But  he  had  no  word  to  say;  no  word,  that  is,  which 
could  be  considered  germane  to  the  immediate  con 
versation. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  old  Sky-Blue  had  been  letting 
himself  go  in  meditation.  He  was  still  meditating  when 
the  sun  came  up. 

He  required  little  sleep,  anyway;  but  even  if  this 
hadn't  been  the  nature  of  him,  still  his  brain  most 
likely  would  have  kept  on  scampering  around — testing 
the  wires,  scratching  at  the  planks,  gnawing,  prying, 
with  the  insatiable  unrest  and  curiosity  of  a  ferret  in  a 
cage. 

His  brain  also  was  taking  in  something  that  it  could 
not  solve. 

What  was  this  old  Chicky  up  to,  anyway?  What  was 
the  colonel  up  to?  What  was  this  game  of  theirs? 
Why  hadn't  Chick  come  across  for  a  fifty-fifty  split 
when  it  was  dead  certain  that  they  couldn't  do  better 
than  that  if  they  didn't  have  him,  Culbertson,  there  to 
help  them?  Anyway,  what  could  Chick  mean  by  throw 
ing  him  over — with  his  long  record  of  success — for  a 
pal  like  Colonel  Williams  when,  as  every  one  knew, 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SHADE    325 

the  colonel  had  allowed  himself  to  be  robbed  since  time 
out  of  mind? 

Aha!  Maybe  that  was  it!  Maybe  Chick  wanted  a 
pal  who  would  be  easy !  And  yet,  this  hypothesis  didn't 
solve  the  riddle  either. 

Why  should  Chick  be  so  sure  of  himself  in  this  mat 
ter  of  chasing  him,  Culbertson,  out  of  town? 

It  was  characteristic  that  Sky-Blue's  attitude  toward 
this  part  of  the  enigma  was  one  neither  of  anger  nor 
of  injured  pride.  It  was  merely  one  more  angle  to 
the  riddle — that  was  all — an  intellectual  problem. 

Now,  now,  now! 

What  could  Chicky  and  the  colonel  be  up  to? 

They  were  smart.  They  were  clever.  He  gave 
them  credit  for  that.  They  had  let  him  go  on  and 
on  and  play  their  game  for  them  right  on  up  to  the 
moment  of  the  big  getaway.  Then  thej  had  stepped  in 
and  given  him  the  double-cross. 

"And  that,"  said  Sky-Blue  to  himself,  "was  some 
thing  I  never  expected  to  get  handed  to  me.  Nope! 
In  all  the  years  I've  been  handin*  it  to  others  this  is 
the  first  time  any  one  ever  done  me  a  job  like  that." 

He  padded  over  to  his  grip  and  got  out  a  fresh 
package  of  fine-cut.  With  this  he  solaced  himself,  took 
a  fresh  grip  on  the  problem.  He  eased  his  clothes, 
took  off  his  socks. 

Well,  he  was  ready  to  admit  that  they  were  a  pair 
of  deep  ones — either  that,  or  a  pair  of  monumental 
fools.  No;  not  fools.  The  bishop  knew  men.  Chick 
was  no  fool.  And  neither  was  the  colonel.  If  the  col 
onel  was  a  fool  the  colonel  would  have  gummed  things 


326  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

when  it  came  to  swinging  in  Chicky  as  custodian  of 
the  funds.  That  was  genius. 

The  bishop  sat  there  by  the  open  window  of  his 
room  and  nourished  his  indefatigable  brain  with  re 
peated  administrations  of  fine-cut  tobacco — while  the 
darkness  melted,  and  the  world  turned  heliotrope  and 
pink,  and  the  waking  birds  chirped  and  trilled,  and  a 
morning  zephyr  threw  back  the  covers  of  dew  and  per 
fume  from  the  flowers,  and  a  few  little  rosy  clouds  went 
dancing  out  of  sight,  naked  but  prettily  modest;  he 
sat  there  in  the  presence  of  this  pageant  and  schemed 
and  studied  and  softly  swore  and  tried  again  to  fathom 
the  mystery  of  Chick  and  the  colonel,  but  especially  of 
Chick. 

What  had  spoiled  the  boy? 

Once  the  best,  and  the  cleanest,  and  the  soberest, 
and  the  least-likely-to-be-nabbed  pickpocket  in  New 
York,  and  now  out  here  in  this  jerk-water  village. 

Was  it  the  girl? 

Sky-Blue  believed  not.  True,  he  had  seen  more  than 
one  bright,  young  man  ruin  himself  for  the  sake  of 
a  skirt.  But  Chick  had  never  been  that  kind.  He 
had  studied  the  lad  from  a  distance,  kept  track  of  him 
as  he  would  have  kept  track  of  a  son. 

And,  just  then,  while  he  was  thinking  of  Alvah,  he 
heard  various  soft  sounds  from  the  back  of  the  house 
that  told  him  the  girl  was  astir. 

Maybe  she  was  in  this  game.  But  he  believed  not. 
He  recalled  how  she  had  been  a  little  cold  to  him  at 
first,  had  thawed  to  him  only  gradually.  She  wasn't 
the  emotional  sort.  But  she  was  the  kind  who  when 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  SHADE    327 

once  put  stays  put.     Anyway,  it  wouldn't  hurt  him 
to  find  out. 

Alvah,  with  the  kitchen  fire  just  fairly  started, 
looked  up  to  see  Professor  Culbertson  standing  in  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  LIU 

THE    LAST    BELIEVER 

"On,  good  morning !"  she  cried.  "I  hope  that  I  didn't 
wake  you  up.  I  think  the  others  are  still  sleeping." 

"She  ain't  wise  to  nothing,"  said  the  bishop  in  his 
heart. 

He  spoke  up  with  the  air  of  a  sufferer. 

"Alvah!" 

"Yes?" 

"Alvah !    Give  me  a  mouthful  of  coffee." 

"Is  there  anything  I  have  in  the  world  I  wouldn't 
give  you?"  Alvah  cried  with  unmistakable  generosity. 

"She's  like  Molly,  my  second  wife,"  the  bishop  com 
muned  with  himself.  "Couldn't  learn  her  to  lie  in  a 
thousand  years.  Good  though !  Good  in  her  way !" 

He  accepted  Alvah's  pleasant  invitation  that  he  take 
his  coffee  here  in  the  kitchen  with  her  instead  of  wait 
ing  for  it  in  the  lonely  dining-room.  And  presently  she 
had  served  him  on  the  kitchen  table,  she  sitting  opposite 
him  and  devouring  him  with  affectionate  eyes. 

"I've  so  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you  alone,"  she 
said,  after  a  while. 

"Now  it's  comin',"  said  Sky-Blue  to  himself. 

But  it  wasn't — nothing  that  he  expected. 

"I've  felt  so  grateful  to  you,"  she  said.  "You've 
328 


THE  LAST  BELIEVER  329 

been  such  a  wonderful  influence  in  my  life,  and  the  lives 
of  all  of  us — uncle's,  and — and  Richard's — not  to 
speak  of  all  St.  Clair." 

Her  voice  was  so  warm,  her  cheek  so  sympathetic, 
here  eyes  so  moist,  that  Sky-Blue  played  up  to  her. 

"Dear  child!" 

She  refilled  the  cup  he  held  out  to  her  with  a  trem 
bling  hand.  He  noticed,  as  a  younger  man  might  have 
noticed  such  things,  the  pretty,  pink  dress  she  had  on, 
the  velvet  tan  of  her  bare  forearms,  the  creamy  warmth 
and  smoothness  of  her  throat.  But  with  an  older  per 
ception  he  also  noticed  how  good  the  coffee  was,  how 
fresh  the  butter,  how  good  her  home-made  bread. 

It  made  him  sigh  aloud. 

"You're  not  suffering!"  she  cried. 

"A  little  rheumatism." 

"You  shouldn't  have  stayed  out  so  late."  She 
blushed.  "We  saw  you  come  in." 

"We  ?" 

"Richard  and  I.  We  were  in  the  garden.  I  wanted 
to  speak  to  you,  but — Richard  wouldn't  let  me.  He's 
so  thoughtful!" 

"My  child,"  said  the  bishop  in  his  heart,  "you  are 
spoofing  me."  Aloud  he  said :  "Oh,  yes !  No  one  will 
ever  accuse  Richard  of  not  being  thoughtful." 

Alvah  stepped  over  lightly  to  the  stove  where  the 
kettle  was  sputtering.  She  moved  it  back.  She  made 
such  a  picture  of  domestic  beauty  standing  there — 
slender,  efficient,  a  little  flushed  with  the  heat,  that 
Sky-Blue  again  thought  of  his  vanished  Molly.  Where 


330  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

was  she  now?  Kalamazoo,  the  last  time  he  had  heard 
of  her;  and  still  living  single.  Was  the  time  coming 
when  he'd  be  willing  to  go  back  into  double  harness 
again?  Molly  would  take  him  back.  She  was  that 
kind.  Maybe  he'd  look  her  up — if  his  luck  didn't 
change. 

"What  was  you  saying?"  he  inquired. 

"I'm  almost  ashamed  to  tell  you  how  late  we  did  stay 
out  there." 

"I'm  an  old,  old  man,"  he  assured  her. 

"I  think  you're  wonderful.  I  don't  mind  telling 
you — oh,  I  must  tell  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  every 
thing." 

"For  God's  sake  do,"  Sky-Blue  recited  in  his  brain. 
He  spoke  aloud.  "Yes,  yes!  If  it's  something  about 
Richard,  you  can  speak  to  me  openly.  I  love  the 
boy." 

His  voice  shook.  He  saw  that  he  was  on  the  right 
track.  So  he  let  his  voice  shake  yet  more,  and  he  even 
managed  a  little  moisture  in  his  own  eyes.  He  re 
peated  : 

"I  love  the  boy." 

"You  guessed " 

"Say  on!" 

"That  I  love  him  too." 

"Piffle,"  the  bishop  said  to  himself.  "Dear  child," 
he  droned. 

"It  was  something  that  he  told  me." 

"O-ho  !"  in  silence.  "Alvah,  pass  me  the  butter.  You 
know  you  can  talk  right  out  to  me.  My  sweet  little 
granddaughters  always  do." 


THE  LAST  BELIEVER  331 

"You  have  granddaughters?" 

"Seven,"  the  bishop  lied.  "Goon!  What  did  Dicky 
say?" 

"Something  terrible." 

"A-about  me?" 

"Of  course  not.    About  himself !" 

"Oh!" 

"He  told  me— no,  I  can't!" 

If  this  kept  up  she  could  never  keep  back  her  tears. 

"Bring  your  chair  around  here,"  he  coaxed,  "and 
set  here  beside  me.  Dear  child !  Sweet  child !" 

And  she  had  no  sooner  done  so  than  he  had  his  arm 
about  her  shoulders  and  was  stroking  her  head,  the 
while  he  looked  skyward  with  a  satisfied  air. 

"He  told  me,"  Alvah  whispered,  "that  he  had  led 
a  terrible  life  in  New  York — had  been  brought  up  to 
steal  things  ever  since  he  was  a  little  boy — and  that 
an  old  man  had  spoken  to  him — opened  his  eyes — made 
him  yearn  to  lead  a  good  life,  and  a  clean  life,  be  born 
again,  as  the  Bible  says." 

There  was  more  of  it. 

"Did — did  Dicky  say — who  the  old  man  was?"  Sky- 
Blue  inquired  with  his  shaky  voice  as  he  smiled  at  the 
ceiling. 

"You,  Professor  Culbertson?" 

"Yes,  yes !    It  was  me." 

"Then  it  was  true !" 

The  bishop  began  to  play  the  game  as  he  saw  it  now. 
He  had  noticed  the  clock.  He  had  only  forty-five  min 
utes  to  spare  if  he  was  to  catch  the  mail-train,  and  that 
he  had  decided  to  do. 


IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "You  mean  it  was  true  about  him 
hookin'  things.  Tut!  Tut!  He  may  have  stolen  a 
few  marbles  from  some  little  playmate,  or  a  banana 
from  a  push-cart — though  I  doubt  it.  I  doubt  it. 
He  always  was  a  sensitive  child — overreligious — calling 
it  murder  if  he  killed  a  fly." 

"But  he  said " 

"I  know!  I  know!  Told  me  the  same  thing!  Ro 
mantic  !  Great  imagination !  Why,  child,  I  carried 
him  in  these  arms  when  he  was  baptized.  I  watched 
him  grow  up — the  dreamy,  poetical  child — dressed  in 
black  velvet — lace  collars  and  cuffs " 

"He  told  me  they  had  been  so  poor!"  exclaimed 
Alvah. 

"Well,  yes !  Compared  to  the  Carnegies  and  Rocke 
fellers  I  suppose  you  would  call  'em  that.  y  But  one  of 
the  finest  old  families  in  New  York — brass  knocker  on 
the  door,  old  furniture,  old  servants.  Lost  it,  though, 
in  the  grea-a-at  panic  ten  or  'leven  years  ago,  and 
there  for  a  while  Richard  supported  his  parents — kept 
on  till  they  died." 

Alvah  was  moved  to  tears — happy  tears,  wistful 
tears;  but  she  said  that  she  wouldn't  have  minded  it 
anyway,  even  if  the  story  were  true,  only,  only,  and 
so  on. 

"Why,  I  remember  when  he  was  in  our  Sunday- 
school,"  old  Sky-Blue  resumed.  But  he  broke  off:  "By 
crickety,  I  almost  forgot " 

"What?" 

"I  have  to  leave  on  the  eight  forty-five." 

"Going  away?" 


THE  LAST  BELIEVER  333 

"Only  fer  a  day  'r  two."  They  were  both  on  their 
feet.  He  began  patting  his  pockets.  "Now,  where 
did  I  put  it  ?"  He  looked  at  her  blankly.  "Have  you 
seen  my  purse?  Bank  ain't  open.  Don't  need  much. 
But — will  the  railroad  trust  me,  do  you  suppose?" 

"You  old  dear,"  Alvah  laughed.  "Let  me  lend  you 
what  I  have." 

She  was  off.     She  was  back  again. 

"It's  only  seventeen  dollars,"  she  said.  "Seventeen 

dollars  and  thirty-five  cents.  I've  been  saving " 

She  blushed. 

"Well,  well!"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  money.  "Let 
Santa  Claus  try  to  make  it  grow  fer  you." 


CHAPTER  LIV 

THE    DAWN    OF    GIXJRY 

THE  day  when  old  Sky-Blue,  otherwise  the  bishop^ 
otherwise  "Professor  Culbertson,  the  illustrious,  of 
London,  England,"  disappeared  from  St.  Clair  was 
to  remain  always  one  of  the  most  notable  in  Richard 
Davies's  career — one  of  the  happiest,  most  beautiful, 
most  promising  days  of  all  days. 

It  began  that  way. 

It  was  late  when  he  awoke,  and  he  opened  his  eyes 
with  a  feeling  of  well-nigh  inexpressible  peace  and 
thanksgiving.  So  it  sometimes  happens  when  one  has 
slept  profoundly  and  well,  and  the  sleeper's  soul  has 
emerged — as  it  may  be  imagined  to  do  after  a  tranquil 
death;  and  the  sleeper  finally  awakens  with  some  dim 
knowledge  of  this  higher  and  better  life,  although  he 
may  recollect  no  single  detail  of  it. 

The  weather  was  bright  but  dulcet,  reviving  instant 
ly  some  feeling  within  him  originally  stirred  to  life  by 
old  Ezra  Wood.  And  now  Davies  did  think  of  that 
old  man  with  a  tremor  of  gratitude — seeing  him  again 
not  as  a  superannuated  farmer,  but  as  a  master,  or  an 
angel,  or  a  spirit,  straight  from  the  center  of  all 
things. 

This  general  impression  of  a  world  made  over  was 
334 


THE  DAWN  OF  GLORY  335 

strengthened  when  he  came  downstairs  and  happened 
upon  Alvah  in  the  hall.  He  saw  a  light  and  a  tender 
ness  in  her  eyes  that  was  quite  other  than  any  light  or 
tenderness  he  had  seen  there  before. 

It  was  something  that  caused  him  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  as  naturally,  and  yet  as  supernaturally,  as  if 
she  had  belonged  there  always.  They  whispered  some 
thing  about  love  and  beauty. 

But  words  were  unnecessary.  The  whole  universe  was 
a  word,  and  the  word  embraced  all  these  ultimate  things 
which,  as  they  comprehended,  were  all  the  same  thing 
anyway — truth,  law,  beauty,  love,  faith,  knowledge. 
All  facts  were  as  clear  and  fragrant  as  the  air. 

Later  on,  when  Colonel  Williams  appeared,  he  was 
merely  another  element  in  this  cosmic  harmony. 

The  colonel  was  quiet,  dignified,  but  gracious. 

Somehow  he  appeared  at  once  older  yet  less  feeble; 
just  a  shade  less  human,  it  may  be,  and  yet  very  much 
the  grand  old  man.  He  struck  an  odd  chord  in  Davies's 
brain.  For  the  first  time  since  they  had  known  each 
other,  the  colonel  was  reminding  Davies — vaguely,  in 
no  definable  way — of  Ezra  Wood  in  his  mystical  as 
pect.  It  was  something  that  pleased  him,  deepened 
his  love  for  the  colonel,  deep  as  this  affection  had 
already  begun  to  be. 

"Culbertson's  gone,"  said  Davies. 

He  had  waited  until  Alvah  was  out  of  hearing. 

"And  the  Lord  liveth!"  the  colonel  exclaimed  enig 
matically. 

For  that  matter,  there  was  nothing  very  revealing 


336  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

in  the  way  that  they  smiled  at  each  other,  except  as 
an  indication  of  mutual  understanding. 

"And  now,"  said  Dick,  "I'll  have  to  dope  out  a  plan 
to  return  the  proceeds  of  last  night's  collection.  The 
checks  will  be  easy.  It's  going  to  be  the  deuce,  though, 
to  return  those  nickels  and  pennies." 

"Let  the  matter  rest  in  abeyance,"  the  colonel  sug 
gested,  "until  I  see  what  can  be  done  about  it.  Per 
haps  our  friends  may  be  willing  to  devote  the  fund  to 
a  new  high-school,  or  a  hospital."  He  added,  irrele 
vantly  perhaps :  "There  generally  is  a  lack  of  com 
munity  spirit  in  a  place  like  this  until  the  devil  shows 
himself  in  person." 

Mr.  Marsh,  the  general  agent  of  the  insurance  com 
pany,  was  already  in  the  office  recently  occupied  by 
Frank  Tine  when  Davies  got  there.  Mr.  Marsh  was 
businesslike,  but  he  was  cordial. 

He  went  into  all  sorts  of  details  concerning  the 
business,  both  local  and  abroad,  and  wound  up  by 
declaring  that  it  was  his  purpose  to  put  Davies  in 
charge  of  the  St.  Clair  agency  forthwith  if  Davies 
felt  the  call. 

Did  he  feel  the  call?     Did  he? 

With  a  chance,  not  only  comparatively,  but  literally, 
to  roll  in  wealth — run  his  own  automobile — out  through 
the  country  year  after  year — not  only  in  search  of  new 
business,  but  in  the  accumulation  of  a  larger  and  larger 
share  of  life! 

There  was  a  brightness  in  his  eyes  as  he  and  Mr. 
Marsh  shook  hands  on  the  proposition.  It  may  have 
been  this  that  caused  the  older  man  to  say: 


THE  DAWN  OF  GLORY  337 

"You'll  make  good.  For  an  insurance  man,  you 
know,  has  to  be  called  just  as  much  as  a  preacher  does." 

It  was  a  prophecy.  It  was  a  hallowing  touch,  more 
over. 

And  no  man,  as  Davies  subsequently  reflected,  can 
ever  be  very  good  at  his  job,  whatever  that  job  may 
be,  unless  he  feels  that  in  doing  it  he  is  doing  something 
in  the  nature  of  a  preacher's  work. 

He  announced  the  good  news  when  he  went  home  at 
noon,  and  the  little  dinner,  with  just  the  three  of  them 
there,  was  in  the  nature  of  a  stately  banquet — a  repast 
with  music  and  love,  both  music  and  love  furnished 
magically  out  of  the  atmosphere. 

When  it  was  over,  and  the  colonel  had  retired  for  his 
nap,  Dick  and  Alvah  went  together  out  into  the  garden 
where  their  talking  wouldn't  disturb  him.  But  as  a 
matter  of  fact  their  voices  wouldn't  have  disturbed  a 
wren,  although  Davies  had  so  much  to  say. 

He  said  most  of  this  under  the  grape-arbor  in  the 
back  yard,  where  they  were  as  remote  and  embowered 
as  they  would  have  been  on  a  desert  island. 

"Oh,  Alvah,  when  are  we  to  be  married?" 

"Whenever  you  say." 

And  Dick,  explaining  how  he  was  going  to  make  all 
the  money  in  the  world,  and  fix  up  this  old  place  and 
make  a  paradise  of  it  for  the  colonel  for  so  long  as 
the  colonel  should  live.  They  left  themselves  out  of 
this  part  of  it  altogether,  as  was  natural;  any  place 
and  every  place  was  paradise  for  them,  just  then,  what 
ever  the  state  of  disrepair. 

But  this  home-making  element  of  the  new  dispensa- 


338  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

tion  underwent  an  unexpected  development  in  the  course 
of  the  afternoon. 

This  was  when  Davies  received  a  visit  from  Harold 
Peebles — that  handsome  lawyer  who  had  bought  the  old 
homestead  in  a  hurry  as  a  nesting-place  for  himself  and 
Tessie  Fisher,  nee  Wingate.  Harold's  mood  was  one 
of  resignation  underlaid  with  a  sort  of  cynical  melan 
choly.  He  had  heard  the  news — about  Tessie  and 
Simp.  He  was  willing  to  get  rid  of  the  Old  Homestead 
at  a  sacrifice. 

Dick's  vision  spread,  enhanced  by  those  earlier  visions 
of  his,  only  now  made  clear  and  logical. 

He  would  want  a  country  home.  He  would  have  a 
car.  He  would  always  crave  a  farm — if  it  were  only 
to  raise  rocks  and  views,  dreams  and  yet  other  visions. 

He  closed  the  bargain,  and  found  that  he  had  done 
better  than  he  would  have  done  if  Frank  Tine  had  not 
played  him  false.  This  became,  incidentally,  another 
germ  of  reason  in  his  new  philosophy — that  no  one  can 
really  injure  any  one  else;  that  no  one  can  injure  any 
one  but  himself;  and  that,  therefore,  if  a  man  be  aU 
right,  everything  does  eventually  turn  out  to  be  for 
the  good. 

It  was  a  philosophy  with  a  general  application — 
•which  is  the  test  of  any  philosophy ;  with  an  application 
for  the  whole  town.  For,  after  all,  didn't  St.  Clair 
profit  by  old  Sky-Blue's  visit?  It  did.  It  lost  the 
Beating  Heart  Seminary,  it  is  true,  but  it  gained  the 
new  hospital. 

For  the  matter  of  that,  the  town  was  richer  in  com 
mon  sense,  as  well;  was  always  a  little  steadier  after 


THE  DAWN  OF  GLORY 

that,  not  so  ready  to  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  first  plati 
tudinous  quack  to  come  along,  swallow  the  first  spiritual 
cure-all  to  be  shoved  under  its  nose. 

Which  was  something*  to  be  grateful  for. 

Because,  after  all,  just  as  every  American  is  Amer 
ica — as  Alvah  put  it — wasn't  it  so  in  an  even  greater 
degree,  that  St.  Clair  likewise  was  America? 

But  all  this  is  of  the  more  or  less  nebulous  future. 

The  more  immediate  facts  are  that,  almost  overnight, 
Davies  became  St.  Glair's  man-of-the-hour — the  story 
having  spread  as  to  how  he  had  defied  the  so-called  Cul- 
bertson  and  driven  the  old  reprobate  from  the  town; 
and  that  Davies  and  Alvah  did  marry  and  live  happily 
forever  afterward — however  hard  it  is  to  make  a  state 
ment  like  that  without  getting  accused  of  plagiarism. 

Drive  through  St.  Clair  to-day  and  you'll  see  the 
name  of  Richard  Davies  spread  in  gilt  letters  across 
the  front  of  a  business  block.  And  then,  if  you  keep 
on  out  through  town  and  along  the  Dartown  Pike  you'll 
see  the  Old  Homestead — reconstructed,  with  a  hint  of 
luxurious  well-being  about  it,  but  none  the  less  unmis 
takably,  still  the  Old  Homestead. 


CHAPTER  LV 

EPELOGUE 

CAME  a  gusty,  sleety  night  to  lower  Manhattan — the 
Elevated  rumbling,  and  the  surface  cars  clanging  and 
shrieking — clanging  and  shrieking  no  louder,  however, 
than  the  garish  lights  and  howling  blacknesses  of  Chat 
ham  Square. 

A  corner  of  the  pit ! 

That  was  what  this  part  of  the  big  town  was  on 
such  a  night. 

And  like  shadows  of  the  pit,  all  of  them  damned,  a 
good  many  of  the  people  thereabouts  came  and  went — 
frail  children,  as  unreactive  to  misery  as  kittens ;  older 
boys  and  girls,  blunted  to  present  pains  by  their  first 
heady  sniffs  at  an  opiate  future;  and  boys  and  girls 
older  yet,  body  weary,  soul  weary,  but  forbidden  to  die, 
thus  keeping  up  the  legend  of  a  punishment  eternal. 

Outside  that  smoky  and  smelly  saloon  which  was 
known  as  the  Commodore,  a  Salvation  Army  man,  bare 
headed,  rapt  of  face  and  utterance,  scattered  riches 
more  precious  than  pearls ;  but  those  who  were  headed 
for  the  Commodore  passed  him  by  as  if  he  had  been  sell 
ing  peanuts. 

The  Commodore  had  gone  down-hill. 

There  had  been  a  murder  in  the  back  room  of  it,  and 

340 


EPILOGUE  341 

a  couple  of  girls  had  drunk  carbolic  acid  there,  and 
the  place  had  been  raided  a  number  of  times  by  the 
police. 

Still,  there  were  always — or  yet — a  number  of  old- 
timers  who  kept  returning  ever  and  anon,  like  bloated, 
frowzy  flies. 

Unclean !    Unclean !    But  dear  to  the  blow-fly  heart ! 

Phil  came  sneaking  in,  like  a  lean  cat — no  longer  so 
spick  and  span — shooting  the  drops  of  water  from  his 
soiled  raiment  as  a  cat  would  twitch  water  from  its  fur. 

He  spied  his  old  friend  Solly  at  a  table  and  slunk 
over  to  join  him. 

Solly  hadn't  seen  Phil  for  a  long  time.  Solly  was 
just  back  from  a  two  months'  trip  out  into  the  wilds. 
But  if  Solly  had  gone  for  his  health  his  time  must  have 
been  wasted.  He  was  still  fat,  but  he  wasn't  cherubic 
any  more.  He  was  very  white,  flabby.  He  had  a  dis 
tressing  habit  of  twitching  his  hands,  rubbing  his 
knuckles  against  his  nose. 

About  the  only  sign  of  a  greeting  that  passed  between 
them  was  when  Solly  made  a  sign  to  Eddie,  the  bar-boy ; 
and  presently  Eddie  came  back  with  two  ponies  of 
whisky  on  his  tray. 

And  Eddie  stood  right  there,  too,  until  he  had  re 
ceived  his  money.  Not  a  word. 

They  shot  the  stuff  into  them. 

"Hear  you  been  in  stir,"  said  Solly. 

"Nuttin'  but  thirty  days,"  said  Phil  with  contempt. 
"What  'd  you  pull  in  the  West?" 

"Nothin'  but  a  pair  of  cold  feet,"  Solly  confessed 


342  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

without  shame.  "The  bulls  was  houndin'  me  all  the 
while  I  was  there.  I  was  sick.  I'm  sick  yet." 

This  made  Phil  grin. 

"You've  lost  your  noive,"  he  affirmed. 

Solly  pawed  at  his  nose  with  the  movement  of  a  rabbit 
washing  its  face. 

"I  never  had  a  fair  deal,"  he  complained. 

"I  thought  you  was  goin'  to  come  back  with  Belle," 
Phil  sneered. 

"Who— Blanche?" 

"Yes ;  Myrtle— the  kid  that  Chick  sent  out  West— 
before  he  blew  the  town." 

"Fergit  it!"  Solly  ejaculated.  "She's  runnin'  a  res 
taurant  in  Colorado  Springs,  and  makin'  good." 

"Why  didn't  you  cop  her  out?" 

"Who — me — her  marry  me?  Say,  when  she  feels 
like  goin'  double  she'll  take  her  pick.  She's  lookin' 
great,  coinin'  money,  straight  as  a  gut." 

"Didn't  you  talk  to  her?" 

"Once;  but  all  she'd  talk  about  was  Chick.  Said 
she  owed  him  a  debt.  Wanted  to  know  where  he  was, 
what  name  he  was  usin',  said  anyway  she  was  sure  he 
was  makin'  good.  Remember  when  we  was  all  here  to 
gether  last  time — right  here  at  this  very  table — Chick, 
Sky-Blue " 

There  was  a  shaky  voice  from  just  behind  them: 

"Eddie !  Eddie !  Ask  these  gentlemen  what  they  will 
have." 

And  there  was  old  Sky-Blue  himself. 

"Grandpa!"  cried  Solly  with  a  shadow  of  his  old 
form. 


EPILOGUE  343 

But  Phil  grinned  at  the  old  man  without  reverence. 
He  did  kick  out  a  chair  for  the  newcomer,  though,  and 
in  this  the  bishop  seated  himself  with  a  creak  and  a 
groan.  Sky-Blue  was  aging  fast.  When  old  men  like 
him  do  let  go,  it's  apt  to  be  like  that — no  spiritual 
reserves  to  draw  upon.  He  had  lost  weight.  His  beard 
showed  neglect. 

He  announced  weakly  that  he  had  come  to  say  good- 
by.  He  was  leaving  shortly  for  Kalamazoo. 

But  he  was  the  same  old  Sky-Blue  in  some  respects. 
He  bull-dozed  Eddie  in  the  process  of  ordering  refresh 
ments;  he  cursed  Eddie  away  when  Eddie  sought  to 
hang  around  until  he  got  his  pay. 

"What  was  that  you  was  sayin'  about  Chick?"  he 
inquired. 

"We  wasn't  sayin',"  Solly  replied.  "I  said  that 
Myrtle  was  askin'  about  him  out  in  Colorado  Springs. 
I  don't  know  anything  more  about  him  than  I  do  about 
the  man  in  the  moon." 

"Well,  you  never  was  an  intellectual  giant,  Solly," 
said  the  bishop,  with  leisurely  judgment.  "Your  friends 
would  tell  you  the  same  thing — if  you  had  any  left." 

Phil  laughed.     Sky-Blue  eyed  him. 

"What  was  you  doin'  on  the  island?"  the  bishop 
queried.  "Makin*  brushes?" 

"Naw!" 

"Well,  maybe  you  will  the  next  time,"  said  old  Sky- 
Blue.  "Be  patient.  It  won't  be  long." 

Solly  sought  to  recover  the  spirit  of  sociability.  He 
was  fairly  successful.  He  said  that  Myrtle  had  set 
him  to  thinking  of  Chick — thinking  of  Chick. 


344  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

"And  well  you  might  be,"  the  bishop  affirmed.  "I've 
been  doin'  it  myself." 

He  meditated.  There  was  a  stamp  of  melancholy  on 
his  face  even  after  he  had  got  the  ultimate  drop  of  his 
liquor  into  him.  But  he  gradually  recovered  himself 
as  the  medicine  began  to  work,  became  more  of  the 
old  Sky-Blue  than  ever. 

He  made  Eddie  call  the  proprietor,  and  he  intimated 
to  the  proprietor  that  it  would  be  good  for  the  pro 
prietor's  soul  and  also  his  business  to  furnish  a  bottle. 
But  as  he  did  this  he  slipped  a  folded  bill — very  old 
and  greasy  and  honest-feeling — into  the  proprietor's 
hand,  so  that  the  proprietor  did  just  as  Sky-Blue  re 
quested  him  to  do. 

"It  was  the  last  one  I  had  left,"  said  the  bishop  when 
he  was  alone  with  his  friends.  "The  last  work  of  poor 
John  Schmidt,  and  now  Schmidty's  doin'  time  for  the 
rest  of  his  natural.  Well,  that's  the  way  it  goes !" 

He  started  to  refill  Solly's  glass  with  a  trembling 
hand.  He  thought  better  of  it.  He  filled  his  own  glass 
and  drank  it  off. 

"Where'd  you  shove  all  them  other  Smitty  queer  bills 
you  had  ?"  Phil  inquired  with  blunt  cynicism. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  the  bishop,  enjoying  the 
liquor  that  still  adhered  to  his  mustache.  "Most  of  it 
I  got  rid  of  up  there  in  this  here  town  of  St.  Clair  I 
was  tellin'  you  about.  They  run  me  out  of  town.  Oh, 
they  done  it  proper.  They  run  me  out  of  town.  But 
I  tell  you.  I  kept  my  eye  on  the  clock  until  it  was 
just  forty-five  minutes  ahead  of  train-time,  and  then  I 
stuck  it  to  'em.  I  changed  one  of  them  bills  in  every 


EPILOGUE  345 

store  in  town — candy  stores,  cigar  stores,  sody-water 
fountains,  newspaper  stand;  I  even  slipped  in  quite 
a  few  on  private  parties — mostly  widders  and  old  maids 
— while  I  was  tellin'  *em  good-by. 

"  'God  bless  you,  sister.     Can  you  change  a  ten?' 

"And  them  runnin'  to  me  with  their  good  money  and 
the  tears  in  their  eyes  I" 

Sky-Blue  laughed  at  the  recollection. 

It  may  have  been  that  Solly  was  still  a  little  peeved 
at  the  way  the  bishop  had  just  passed  him  up  in  the 
matter  of  another  drink.  Again,  Solly  may  have  been 
afflicted  with  that  exalted  moral  sense  common  to  in 
valids. 

"Why,  you  old  crook,"  he  said,  "you  ought  to  go  to 
the  chair  for  deceiving  women  like  that." 

"They  didn't  lose  anything,"  the  bishop  rejoined 
with  a  flash  of  righteous  indignation.  "They  didn't  lose 
anything  !'* 

"How  didn't  they  lose  anything?" 

"Why,  they'll  be  still  shovin'  them  counterfeits 
around  among  themselves  till  the  cows  come  home," 
said  the  bishop.  "One  in  the  collection-plate !  Another 
to  the  butcher's  little  square-head!  Why,  them  bills 
will  be  legal  tender  in  that  town,  fer  a  hundred  years — 
nobody  willin'  to  beef  for  fear  of  not  bein'  able  to 
pass  the  phony  bill  on  to  the  next  one." 

"And  Chick's  still  there?"  sneered  Phil. 

"He's  there,"  said  the  bishop,  with  sudden  gravity 
and  enlightenement.  "He's  there.  Solid,  too!  Solid 
as  the  Rock  of  Gibraltar!  Tried  to  frighten  him  a 
little!  Tried  to  blackmail  him!  Had  no  more  chance 


346  IF  YOU  BELIEVE  IT,  IT'S  SO 

'n  if  he  was  the  President  of  this  grea-a-a-t  country  of 
ours !" 

As  Sky-Blue  tossed  off  yet  another  drink  he  was 
swinging  rapidly  into  his  old  familiar  stride. 

"Oh-h-h,  it  all  goes  to  show !"  he  proclaimed.  "Here 
was  our  Chicky  up  there,  a  pullin'  the  s-a-a-me  line  o' 
dope  as  I  been  a  pullin'  fer  these  past  fifty  year.  'Be 
good  and  you'll  be  happy/  'Oh-h-h,  the  m-a-a-r-vulous 
power  of  pious  twaddle!'  And  now,  just  see  him!  Be 
hold,  he  is  rich!  He  sets  with  the  mighty!  Solid  as 
the  Rock  of  Gibraltar!" 

Solly  and  Phil  were  listening  to  Sky-Blue  in  a  species 
of  trance.  It  was  a  quality  possessed  by  the  bishop. 
He  could  command  an  attention  like  that  even  in  the 
back  room  of  the  Commodore. 

Finally  Solly  spoke. 

"Well,  how  do  you  explain,"  he  demanded  seriously, 
"that  he  got  away  with  it  and  you  didn't?" 

Sky-Blue  reflected. 

"A  fair  question,"  he  adjudged.  "A  fair  question 
calling  for  a  fair  answer.'* 

He  fortified  himself  with  yet  another  drink.  He 
smacked  his  lips.  He  formulated  his  thought. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  he.  "The  difference  was 
this:  Chick,  he  believed  it,  and  I  didn't."  An  unex 
pected  tear  dropped  into  his  beard.  A  far-away  look 
came  into  his  eyes.  "Oh-h-h,  my  dear  young  friends," 
he  intoned,  "remember  this !  Remember  this  as  you  go 
through  life :  If  you  believe  it,  it's  so !" 

THE    END 


BOSTON  BLAGKIE 


BY 
JACK  BOYLE 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 
W.    H.    D.   KOERNER 


New  York 

THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY 
Publishers 


BOSTON  BLACKE 

CHAPTER  I 

BOSTON  BLACKIE! 

BOSTON  BLACKIE  ...  in  the  archives  of  a 
hundred  detective  bureaus  the  name,  invariably 
followed  by  a  question  mark,  was  pencilled 
after  the  records  of  unsolved  safe-robberies  of  un 
equalled  daring  and  skill. 

The  constantly  recurring  interrogation  point  was 
proof  of  the  uncanny  shrewdness  and  prevision  of  a 
crook  who  pitted  his  wits  against  those  of  organized 
society  and  gambled  his  all  on  the  result  of  the  game 
he  played — for  it  was  in  the  spirit  of  a  man  playing 
a  vitally  engrossing  game  against  incalculable  odds 
that  Boston  Blackie  lived  the  life  of  crookdom.  The 
question  mark  meant  that  the  police  suspected  his 
guilt — even  thought  they  knew  it — but  had  no  proof. 

The  name,  Boston  Blackie,  was  an  anathema  at  the 
annual  convention  of  police  chiefs.  The  continually 
growing  list  of  exploits  attributed  to  him  left  them 
raging  impotently  at  his  incomparable  audacity.  He 
neither  looked,  worked  nor  lived  as  experience  taught 
them  a  crook  should.  Traps  innumerable  had  been 
laid  for  him  without  result.  Always,  it  seemed,  an 
intuitive  foreknowledge  of  what  the  police  would  do 
guided  him  to  safety.  In  short,  Boston  Blackie,  safe- 

9 


ID  BOSTON  BLACKIE 

cracker  de  luxe,  was  the  great  enigma  of  the  harried, 
savagely  incensed  guardians  of  property  rights. 

Though  detectives  never  guessed  it,  the  secret  of 
Boston  Blackie's  invulnerability  lay  in  his  mental  atti 
tude  toward  the  law  and  those  paid  to  uphold  it.  In 
his  own  mind  he  was  not  a  criminal  but  a  combatant. 
He  had  declared  war  upon  Society  and,  if  defeated, 
was  ready  to  pay  the  penalty  it  inflicted.  Undefeated, 
he  felt  the  world  could  not  hold  a  grudge  against  him. 
The  laws  of  the  statute  books  he  discarded  as  mere 
"scraps  of  paper."  He  saw  himself  not  as  a  law 
breaker  but  as  a  law-upholder,  for  he  lived  under  the 
rigid  mandates  of  a  crook-world  code  that  he  held 
more  sacred  than  life  itself.  A  guilty  conscience  proves 
the  downfall  of  most  prison  inmates.  Blackie,  his 
conscience  clear,  played  the  game  winningly  with  the 
zest  of  a  school-boy  and  the  joy  of  a  gambler  con 
fidently  risking  great  stakes. 

Boston  Blackie  was  no  roystering  cabaret  habitue 
squandering  the  proceeds  of  his  exploits  in  night-life 
dissipation.  University  trained  and  with  a  natural 
predilection  for  good  literature,  his  pleasures  were 
those  of  a  gentleman  of  independent  means  with  a 
mental  trend  toward  the  humanitarian  problems  of 
the  day.  His  home  was  his  place  of  recreation  and 
in  that  home,  sharing  joyously  the  perils  and  pleasures 
of  his  strangely  ordered  life  was  Mary,  his  wife — 
Boston  Blackie's  Mary  to  the  crook-world  that  looked 
up  to  them  with  unfeigned  adulation  as  the  chief  ex 
ponents  of  its  queerly  warped  creed. 


BOSTON  BLACKIE  1 1 

Mary  was  Boston  Blackie's  best  loved  pal  and  sole 
confidant.  She  alone  knew  all  he  did  and  why,  and, 
knowing,  she  joined  in  his  exploits  with  the  whole- 
heartedness  of  unquestioning  love.  Together  they 
played;  together  they  worked  and  always  they  were 
happy  in  good  fortune  or  evil.  A  strange  couple,  so 
unusual  in  thought  and  life  and  habit  that  detectives, 
judging  them  by  other  crooks,  were  forever  at  sea. 

Seated  in  their  cozy  apartment  in  San  Francisco 
which  for  the  time  was  their  home  Blackie  suddenly 
dropped  the  current  volume  on  mysticism  which  he 
had  been  reading  and  looked  across  the  room  to  Mary, 
busy  with  an  intricate  piece  of  embroidery. 

"We  need  a  bit  of  excitement,  Mary,"  he  said 
with  the  unconcerned  air  of  a  husband  about  to  sug 
gest  an  evening  at  the  theatre.  "We'll  take  the  Wil- 
merding  jewel  collection  tonight. " 

"I'll  drive  your  car  myself  if  you're  going  out 
there,"  she  answered  with  the  faintest  trace  of  wom 
anly  anxiety  in  her  voice. 

"Well,  then,  that's  settled." 

Boston  Blackie  resumed  his  reading  and  Mary  her 
embroidery. 


CHAPTER  II 

BOSTON  BLACKIE'S  LITTLE  PAL 

THE  room  was  faintly  illumined  by  the  intermit 
tent  flame  of  a  wood-fire  slowly  dying  on  the 
hearth  of  an  open  grate.     The  house  was  silent 
dark,  seemingly  deserted.     Outside,  the  dripping  San 
Francisco  fog  clung  to  everything  in  the  heavy  im 
penetrable  folds  that  isolated  the  residence  from  its 
neighbors  as  though  it  stood  alone  in  an  otherwise 
empty  world. 

Inside  the  handsomely  furnished  living-room,  and 
opposite  the  fire  which  now  and  then  leaped  up  and 
cast  his  shadow  in  grotesque  shapes  against  the  ceiling, 
stood  a  man  intently  studying  the  paneled  walls — a 
man  with  a  white  handkerchief  masking  his  face  and 
a  coat  that  sagged  under  the  weight  of  the  gun  slung 
ready  for  instant  use  beneath  one  of  its  lapels. 

The  man  was  Boston  Blackie.  Concealed  behind 
the  oaken  panels  he  inspected  so  painstakingly  was  a 
safe  in  which  lay  the  Wilmerding  jewels — a  famous 
collection. 

For  two  generations  San  Franciscans  had  eyed 
them  with  envy.  Handed  down  from  mother  to 
daughter  they  had  played  their  part  in  the  social 
warfare  of  the  city  of  the  Golden  Gate  for  half  a 
century.  And  Blackie  was  there  to  make  them  his 
own. 

12 


Buy  the  book  from 
your  Bookseller  and 
go  on  with  the 
story. 


fciVi 

a  ** 


THIS   BOOK   IS   DUE   ON   THE   LAST   DATE 
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RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

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PS3537 

H532 

15 


Sheehan,  Fferley  Poore,  1875-19^3. 

If  you  believe  it,  it's  so.  Illus,  by 
Ada  Williamson  and  Paul  Stahr.  New  Yor 
H.K.  Fly  Co.  Ccl919i 

3^6  p.  illus. 


I.  Title. 


